The Scottish Play
by ellylilly-pcmh
Summary: After Matthew's death, Isobel must deal with something she would never have expected: the sudden departure of her only friend in Downton. Left alone to think about what happened, and what was lost, Isobel starts to realize that things are not as she had assumed the previous summer. And that she wants and needs her doctor back. - Rating may change in the following chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**- No copyright infringement intended, the characters belong only to Julian Fellowes, so seems to be very good in slowly killing all of our hopes. Thank you, Julian. -**

**- For Eugenia, The Woman Who Waited, and our embarrassing conversations about Certain People, the result of a long conversation on FB - Oh, my gooooooosh! -**

* * *

"Gone. What does it mean, gone?"

"It means exactly what it means, Mrs Crawley," answered shortly the Dowager Countess, shooting the other woman a sharp glance, "Gone. He left. He abandoned this part of the country."

"But why?"

"Familiar business, it seems," the Dowager looked down at the small letter in her lap, a very kind and gentle courteous letter indeed, "At least it's what he wrote to me, and what he told me the day before he left."

"You talked to him?"

"Didn't you?" this time, the Dowager really seemed surprised, "I thought you were the first one to be informed about it."

"No, I... I..." she trailed off, wondering if she had missed some signals from him in the past weeks, "No, I didn't talk to him. Nor he did inform me about his idea of leaving Downton and the hospital."

"Well," the sharp tone was back in the Dowager's voice, "He was here some days ago. He told me he had already found a substitute for the hospital and that he needed to leave for some times, but had no idea about how much time. Things to arrange with his family, I suppose, since he said something about family business."

"Oh, yes..." she nodded weakly, distracted, turning and turning again the small envelope that he had sent her. Just few lines, telling her he needed to go away. Nothing more, just some cold informations. The letter to the Dowager was surely richer of details, and somehow it hurt her. She believed he could trust in her, that he actually trusted in her, but probably she was wrong. And now he was gone... without telling her. Not even a good-bye.

"Mrs Crawley?"

The voice of the Dowager claimed back her attention and she looked up at her, without truly seeing the older woman. Where things had gone so wrong between the two of them? She couldn't really understand it.

"Yes, sorry, I..." she imposed herself to regain some control on her behaviour, the last thing she needed now was the Dowager doing irony about her strange reaction at the news, "Thank you, Cousin Violet. Now I... I must go back to the hospital. To arrange things in order to properly greet the new doctor," she somehow managed a polite and quite bright smile to the Dowager, who just seemed not to believe a word about it, at least looking at the sceptical expression of pure doubt on her face.

"Very well, then. Good-bye, Mrs Crawley. Of course let me know when we'll have this small party for the new doctor. And... if you need anything else." the Dowager added with a small, compassionate smile, trying to break, at least for some second, the icy barrier between them.

"Yes..."

"Will you organise it? It can keep you busy. You're the Chairman of the Board, after all."

"Of course," she nodded again, feeling numb. Maybe having something else to think about will help her to ignore the sudden pain in her chest; now she must not only ignore the pain for what had happened months before, but also for this news, "I think the new doctor will arrive in one or two days. What about this week-end, after the function?"

"Three days to organise everything?" she didn't miss the sharp, short tone was back in the Dowager's voice, but ignored it, "It's up to you, Mrs Crawley."

* * *

She gently declined the car to go back home, insisting she would like to take a stroll to Crawley House. She needed to think, to think a lot about was had happened in the past months, to ignore, for a short time, the arrival of a new doctor, and everything, everything else.

How on earth had they managed to lost their doctor? How on earth she hadn't understood something was wrong?

A small voice inside her told her that she was mourning. And, for Heaven's sake, not even her was that good in doing a lot of things at the same time! And yet, she should had understood something was wrong. He was always there, visiting her every two or three days, worrying about her, making sure she was as much as fine as possible. He came for tea and talked to her, and sometimes she went to the hospital to help him, how she has missed his discomfort?

Another small voice remembered her that she had barely heeded him in the past months. Yes, he was there, but she never gave much attention to him. She had heard him, but never actually listened. She had politely smiled at him and answered his questions, but never cared about his presence there. He was something she gave for granted in her life, a support in her grief, a friend. And now, he was gone, maybe for good.

The months after Matthew's death had been a living hell, but somehow she knew he was always there. He was present at the funeral, in the back rows, but he was there, and he had come to extend his condolence to all the family, but, she knew, specially to her.

He was present at the christening of baby George Matthew Crawley, whose smile was the spitting copy of his deceased father's one, and again he came to her, this time to congratulate for her beautiful grandson.

And he was always at the hospital, working and managing things to cover the gap of her absence; and he was twice or trice a week at her home, merely talking to her for half an hour, an hour, sometimes more, a polite distance between the two of them, Molesley always somewhere near.

He had been, she realised, something like a guardian angel. If she turned, she remembered now with painful clarity, he had always been there, at the back of her eyes, ready to catch her if she fell. But she never fall, and he never had to catch her, and now he was gone. Gone with what, she understood suddenly, had been the best part of her days since Matthew's death, apart for her frequent visits to baby George.

Something caught in her throat and she felt again the blinding darkness in the back of her mind trying to engulf her. He had gone, he had left her alone. She was alone, her only company gone, and she realised just at the moment how much she had cherished his presence, and how cold she must had seemed to him. He, with his warm yet compassionate smiles, he, and his small bouquets of flowers which she always and promptly forgot on the table in the hall, he and his kind words... gone, all gone, without a word.

Her eyes fall on the envelope still in her hands and she noticed her sight was quite blurred; she wasn't able to read the few words on the paper.

Wiping angrily her eyes, with the same force she opened the small envelope, sticking out the short letter, reading it again.

_Mrs Crawley_, it began, _I'm writing to you to inform you I'm leaving. I've already informed the hospital in Ripon, so do not worry about that; a new doctor will arrive in a few days._ Then, somehow, it became a little more personal, and it hurt her, _I hope for you the best in this world, for there's still some good here for you. Sincerely yours, Dr. R. Clarkson._

She read it twice again. She had received it that very morning, a bolt from the blue in her life. She was stupefied, hurt, angry with that man, and felt incredibly lonely. She was right, the letter for the Dowager was longer and more complete, and he even went to talk to here... he must had left two days before, she mused, her thoughts following no rational paths, for having her receiving the letter this morning, he must had sent it the very same day he left Downton. He must had posted it at the train station. The pain in her chest returned as strong as before.

It wasn't a mere communication about his momentary absence.

It was a farewell.

* * *

Sitting alone in her small study, everything seemed darker than before. Glancing out of the window, every flowers remembered her of his bouquets, small and disorderly as they were. She would gave up everything she had in that room only to received one of that bouquets right now, she thought.

With an irritated sigh, Isobel pushed away the thought, bringing her attention back to the list of tasks she had to accomplish in order to greet the new doctor. He would arrived tomorrow - _too soon, too soon_, as the phone call for Ripon hospital has informed her some hours before, and in a few days they will held that stupid party. Groaning, she drop the pen on the papers, staining them with dark ink, and looked again out of the window. How was she supposed to work with the new doctor? It had took her years to get along well with Clarkson, and now it seemed she never truly managed to know him...

"Is everything alright, Ma'am? I've heard - "

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry Molesley, everything it's fine." she smiled at his, but his expression told her he was even more worried than before, "I'm just a little bit tired..."

"Do you want me to call the doctor?"

"No!" only the mention of the fact gave her a sharp pain in the chest, "No, the doctor is not in Downton now. A substitute will arrive tomorrow. Family business, it seems. You may go, thank you," she turned her pack to him, partly to avoid him to see the hurt expression she was wearing, "I'll dine at seven. Please, inform the cook."

"Ma'am."

Isobel waited with her back straight for the door to close with a small click, and for Molesley's footsteps to die away, before slumping in exhaustion against her chair.

If the simple mention of the doctor coming to visit her was causing so much pain to her, how was she supposed to go on with this new situation? How was she supposed to go on without him?

* * *

**- I promise I'll try to update quickly! R/R, please -**


	2. Chapter 2

**- Thanks everybody for your kinds reviews and for the followings. Hope you like also this one! -**

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She smiled politely to everybody, looking around the hall of the hospital with an empty expression in her eyes, but nobody seemed to feel her discomfort. She shook hands and received compliments for the organization of the party, as if she had been the happy and proud lady of the house and not just a simple nurse, a mourning Chairman of the Board. Everybody was enjoying the small party she had managed to organize in just a few days for the new doctor, and he, to honor the truth, was really trying to win the people's favor.

Doctor Seamus Millar was young, pale and so slim he almost disappeared, surely scared by the Dowager's brisk manners, but he was really trying to be accepted. He knew he was only a substitute, and she had explained him that all the village esteemed the previous doctor and was waiting for him to come back. Thinking about it again, with her untouched glass of punch in her hand - _why drinking punch always seemed to bring back happy memories which were not happy anymore?_, she had probably been a little too insistent about that fact, specially when she was not even sure if their doctor will ever come back to Downton.

But Millar was dealing very well with everyone and everything, despite his obvious nervousness, and his short speech before had been one of modesty, and they had all appreciated it. He was there temporary, and he knew that, everybody, from the Family to the villagers, knew it. The only one who seemed to doubt it was Isobel herself, the nagging feeling of being abandoned in her stomach too constantly reminding her of it..

"Nice party, Cousin Isobel," Cora gently touched her arm, and she was diverted from her thoughts just before their became too sad for the occasion, "Quite small, but well organized."

"Yes, thank you, Cousin Cora." another polite yet vague smile.

"Are you okay? You seem... I don't know..." Edith said, looking at her concerned. She had always been the neglected daughter, Isobel found herself thinking suddenly, watching her, the middle daughter, intelligent, but not beautiful. Mary had always been the beautiful one, the heiress, the pride of her father;

Sybil was the modern one, and they all missed her, her mother's joy; but young Edith... she was only intelligent, and who wants an intelligent woman at his side? So independent as Edith had became?

"You seem so sad, Cousin Isobel."

"It's alright, I'm just..." she stopped, wondering for some seconds which one of her answer would be the most proper, "Tired. I'm tired."

"You should give up some work at the hospital. You'll still mourning, after all, we all are."

Cora squeezed again her arm before leaving them to reach her husband at the other side of the room, taking his arm and smiling lovely at him, under the scrutinizing glance of the Dowager. Actually, she was scrutinizing almost everything in the room, from the chairs to the food, from the flowers to the people, to her. Isobel blinked quickly and looked away from Cousin Violet, refocusing her attention on the Earl and the Countess in front of her.

_They had each another, they had each another,_ murmured a voice in her head, _Mary had her son and Branson had his daughter. Edith had her work at the newspaper and probably also a man, but you, you, who do you have?_ A wave of grief and regret washing over her, Isobel realised that, after her son's death, she had had the best man in the world at her side, and she had let him go.

"Are you going to work well with Doctor Millar, Cousin Isobel?"

She finally sipped her punch, looking at the young man, "I have to. The hospital must work, no matter if the both of us work well together or not. But he's well prepared and he seemed eager to be useful here."

Edith nodded and went silent, and they both looked around the room, catching in the details. The small buffet, the presents, young Doctor Millar, so young that he had not fought in the war, had not seen its horrors, had not worked at her side to help people, had not worn that light brown uniform that, she realised quite suddenly and with some embarrass, she missed so terribly...

"Do you miss him?"

The words of her young cousin caught her in her thoughts again and she looked at Edith, an apologetic smile on her lips, "I beg your pardon, my dear? I was distracted again, I'm sorry."

Edith's small sad smile made her stomach clench painfully, "Doctor Clarkson. You seemed to get along well with him."

Isobel managed a laughter, a little bit too high and almost hysterical, "Get along well... hardly! We managed to establish a successful working relationship, that's all."

The small voices in her head and conscience returned, they were all screaming that it had been more than a simply working relationship, and Edith looked like she was thinking the very same thing.

"I supposed he was your friend."

Isobel quickly closed and reopened her eyes, her sight blurred for the umpteenth time thinking about that, "I supposed it too."

Something horribly like a sob came strangled out of her lips, and she quickly covered her mouth with her free hand, shutting close her eyes, slightly doubling up. Somehow, she managed to feign an attack of cough and, when she straightened herself, she found Edith looking at her worriedly, her slim body in front of her, shielding her from the other guests.

"Are you okay, Cousin Isobel?"

"Yes!" she shoot her what she hoped was a bright smile, or something like that, and smoothed down her black velvet dress, "But I'm tired, so very tired. Would you excuse me with your mother and grandmother? And with Doctor Millar, of course. I'd prefer to go back home."

"Are you sure? Would you like me to accompany you home? I can stay with you a little."

"No, my dear girl, but thank you. You can come to visit me whenever you want, but now you should enjoy the party," Edith's dramatic eye roll almost made her smile, "I think I'll go to rest a bit. Thank your mother for me, but I don't think I'm going to come up to the Abbey this evening."

* * *

Again she found herself sitting alone in her sitting-room, with just a cup of tea and a book with her, something that seemed she was doing awful a lot in the these last months. Looking outside the window, she sighed heavily, her eyes wandering lazily on her garden engulfed in the thick darkness of mid-March. Summer had came and passed, as well as autumn, with its burnt colors, and winter, with its freezing and white vividness. Christmas had passed, and the New Year too, the Servants' Ball and everything, and they were all still mourning. Mary would probably mourn until next summer, while she would probably never leave her black dress. She would never stop mourning her only son.

Sipping absentmindedly her now cold tea, Isobel thought back at the party she had left some hours before.

She had felt so alone in that room full of people, full of her extended family, but nobody seemed to understood that or cared about it. Matthew would had felt it, as well as Richard.

The enormity of the reality finally sinking into her, she took in that, since he had left, she had referred to the the doctor, to her doctor, with his Christian name in her mind, and it seemed so natural and normal she had not realised it in the first place. In the past days, when she had thought about him, _about them_, about what they were or what they were not, never had been and now probably never will be, she had affectionately called him by his first name, enjoying more than what was proper the sound that it made in her mind, or on her lips for the matter, when she found herself thinking out aloud.

She missed him, she missed his almost daily company, his warm smiles and his, oh, so beautiful, bouquets. She missed his concern for her, she missed his care, she missed her only friend in Downton, a friend that, in the past months, maybe even years, had became something more without her realizing it during the process. She had understood it when it was too late.

It looked like a sad-ending of their relationship, so sad that it was unfair to both of them. She had never been a day-dreaming woman looking for the perfect happy-ending. She had had a life full of joy and pain, with bright and happy days, and horrible and dark ones, a life worthy to be lived, a dear husband died too soon and a darling son who left her too soon to, leaving her alone behind. She wasn't looking for her happy-ending. She was looking for him.

Finally setting her mind, Isobel drank the last sips of tea, her forehead frowned in an expression of conviction, in her best stubborn manner. Coming up with her final decision, something that the rational part of her mind was discouraging her to do, she stood up and pour herself a glass of whisky, making slowly her way to the wide front window, thinking about the details of the plan that was quickly forming in her mind, all the explanations and the small lies she was going to tell the Family up in the Abbey to justify her sudden departure without telling all the truth.

Family business could mean just one thing for him: _Scotland_.

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**- My job here is done *wooooooosh* R/R, please! -**


	3. Chapter 3

**- I'm really glad you like this story! I do think this is actually my most serious attempt of writing a long fic, and I'm really enjoying it - except the fact that I found myself writing in the middle of the night when I should sleep. Whatever. Enjoy! -**

**- No copyright infringement intended, etc. etc. etc. - I'm just bringing us some plot-line for those two, since it seems that Fellowes only makes disaster when trying to do something with them. -**

* * *

The country landscape was passing quickly out of the small window of her compartment, under the brim of her bordeaux hat. She had traveled all day and, despite her first-class compartment, she was beginning to feel really tired, and the Scottish landscape was not helping to improve her mood. The sun was hidden by a dense fog that seemed to thicken in banks around the shrubs in the fields - she had never been in Scotland, but certainly she had not expected it to be so cold and hostile.

It was the beginning of April, and still the weather was not at its best - she knew, travelling up to North, that days would be colder and rainier, but she did not care. Her luggages carefully prepared and then loaded in the train, she had all the dresses, coats and hats she would need or desire for her trip.

Nevertheless, she shrugged with cold in her bordeaux coat, and not for the first time that day she cursed herself under her breath, wandering why, _why_, she had chose that specific article of clothing for travelling by train. She had last worn it when the Family left for Scotland the summer before, when she sent off her son on the small platform of Downton train station, and then... and then... and then everything was back, the aching pain in her chest, the memories that were haunting her and that she was trying not to remember so often, the sense of loneliness, the cold in her bones.

Setting off from Crawley House and leaving dear Edith at the station where she had accompanied her, she had left everything she was still sure to have, a beautiful grandson, a mourning, arrogant, but fierce and protective to her son daughter-in-law, the noble family which had became, by accident, her family.

She was leaving the people she was sure to have in her life, no matter if she argued with them so very often, for someone who she wasn't sure would be at her side anymore, not mentioning being in her life.

With a annoyed groan, she rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the Edinburgh railway station exiting the heavy fog in front of her eyes. And she remembered why she was there, what was she going to do there, her last conversation with the Family at home, everything...

_"Let me get this. You're leaving."_

_"I am."_

_"But why?" he looked at her, finally turning to her, perplexed and uncomfortable in his big library._

_"I..." she stopped, collected her thoughts and offered Robert a sad smile, well aware of the Dowager's eyes on her face, "I need to go away for a while. I need to leave all... all of this."_

_"But - "_

_"It's not your fault, Robert, of none of you, it's just me," she hurriedly explained him, seeing the expression of discomfort expanding on his face, in his light eyes, "Everything here remembers me of my son. And I can't... I really can't go on like it. I think I need a break."_

_"Very well, then," Robert straighten himself and gave her a smile, "Are you going to go back to Manchester?"_

_"Well..." in her head, Isobel quickly debates the merits of truth against lie. She opted for the first, "No. Going back to Manchester will raise too many painful memories too. I'm not ready to go back to our house there."_

_"Then where will you go?"_

_"I don't know," she lied this time, the last thing she wanted was telling Robert, and his mother, for the matter, that she was going up to Scotland, that the memories which were haunting her in those days were not only about her poor beloved son. The impression that the Dowager was already suspecting something crossed her mind, but she silenced that very thought smiling at Robert, "I haven't decided yet. I'll let you know my destination as soon as I know it too."_

_He sighed, tiredly brushing a hand over his eyes._

_"Isobel... we're all here for you, you know that, don't you?" crossing the room to standing near the couch, Robert gently took her hand, "I know that we never got along very well, that our first years all together weren't that happy, but Matthew was like a son to me. And to Cora too. He gave us our first grandson. He was - "_

_Isobel tensed at his words, shooting him a deadly glance and quickly withdrawing her hand from his ones: he was not his father, he was just a distant relative; he had lost a daughter, that was true, but he wasn't a mother, nor he had lost his only child, "Matthew was my everything."_

_A small lie, but none but her would ever know; Matthew had been her everything for years, since his father's premature death, but slowly, slowly, after their arrive in Downton, she had left someone else to become an important part of her life._

_Slowly, he had become important to her, so had began to lean on him and to let him doing the same when he needed it._

_Slowly, with every animated discussion between the two of them about their job, they had became closer, she had became his colleague and his help, they had became friends and something more._

_Slowly, without her realising it, her everything had split in two._

_Slowly, he had claimed her heart._

_"I need to go, Robert, I'm sorry." she barely shook her head to clean her thoughts and stood up quickly, gently waving at him._

_"When will you leave then?"_

_"Oh, in a few days."_

_"Are you going to leave Doctor Millar alone at the hospital, Isobel? Do you think he can handle it?"_

_Isobel put on an annoyed face, perfectly matching the Dowager's one, "He has plenty of nurses to help him. And he has had more than two weeks to find his own feet in our small hospital."_

_"You don't like him, do you, Isobel?" Robert smiled._

_Isobel smiled back, but her answer was cut by the Dowager's sharp voice._

_"No one likes him, Robert, dear," she crossed to join them near the couch, "I'll take the car with Mrs. Crawley to come back home. She had to prepare her things, I'm tired."_

_Half on hour later, half an hour of thick silence, Isobel got out of the car and smile politely to the Dowager, "I think we'll see each another again after my return, then."_

_"Are you going to surprise us all with your destination or can I be sure about your departure and stay in Scotland?"_

_Isobel's smile did not falter at the Dowager's sibylline words, even if her heart sunk in her chest; how on earth did the Dowager know, or suspect, about her plans? "I've never been up there. Matthew phoned me during your holidays, he said it's a lovely place."_

_"Not in this part of the year. It's quite awful now," the Dowager fell silent and scrutinised Isobel, her expression, her smile, waiting for her to betray herself, her eyes never leaving her face._

_Isobel swallowed, her gentle smile still plastered on her lips, but, for the first time since they've known, she really felt she wasn't able to hold the Dowager's gaze. Just as she was about to lowered her eyes, the Dowager fidget on the leather seat of the car,uncomfortable. She seemed nervous too, as she was embarrassed, and Isobel could not recall an occasion in which she had seen the Dowager Countess embarrassed, not that much._

_"We all miss him, you know."_

_Her word hit Isobel hard and it took her some seconds to entirely realise what she was implying. She blinked, "I beg your pardon?"_

_"Doctor Millar is a nice guy, but he's too young and without enough experience, and we both know that. The rumours run quickly in a small village as Downton, and I know you don't like him, that you're always tart and brisk with him."_

_"It's not I don't like," she quickly replied in defence, stiffening, "It's just that he's too young, and can not cope with our hospital. It's not big, I know quite well, but he's not able to organise -"_

_"We all want our doctor back."_

_Isobel's lip stretched into an annoyed line, "Why are you telling me this?"_

_"Maybe during your trip to Scotland, a casual destination I'm sure of it, you'll meet him by chance. And maybe he will consider to come back if you tell him we all miss his good work."_

_"I don't think - "_

_The Dowager cut her short with a brusque sway of her hand, "Then tell him he's a part of our story, oh our village, of our system. He had seen my granddaughters born and died, got married and became mothers. He's important to all of us, and we all respect him," the Dowager closed the door and looked intently at her through the small window of the car, but not in an hostile way. She was almost gentle, with that tiny smile on her slim lips, "For someone else, he's surely something more. Good day, Mrs. Crawley."_

* * *

Isobel looked up at the dark red, old, wooden gate in front of her, then lowered her tired eyes on the address she wrote in her small agenda before leaving.

_14 Mantleford Crescent, Edinburgh._

You really shouldn't had done that, she scolded herself under her breath, searching in the hospital files for his alternative address, it looked like an horrible disrespect to him and to his privacy. But hadn't she already set her mind with the purpose to find him and... and what? Asking him to come back to Downton, with her, perhaps? And starting all over again that absurd ballet of courtesy, small gifts and quick visits that had already made him fly once?

Swallowing, now slightly worried, she looked at the gate again. Red walls made of bricks and lime, small wooden windows, all closed, and that big gate that overlooked the small street in which she was standing, slightly trembling. Maybe sending away the taxi hadn't been her best idea that day, after all. The place was quite far from the station and from the lovely inn in the centre of Edinburgh where she had left her luggages.

Taking a deep breath, finally setting her mind - it would be fool to leave and come back home without even trying to meet him after all she had done to be there -, she raised her hand and knocked the door, softly at first, but then with a loud rattle on the old wood.

Unanswered, she knocked again, forcefully, almost angrily; now that she had decided to confront him, he had to answer her, to face her, to give her some explanations. Encouraged by the thought, almost exhilarated with it, Isobel was about to knock for the forth time when the noise of hurried footsteps down a stairs blocked her with her clutched hand half-raised. There weren't male footsteps, she had the time to think, before a small door in the gate opened in front of her.

"I'm sairy, I'm haur, I'm dreadfully, terribly sairy, but -"

The person who had opened the door raised the head and suddenly fell silent at her sight. On her part, Isobel quickly lowered her fist, blushing furiously, and then looked at the person in front of her, her heart sinking deeply in her chest.

A woman, younger then her, probably in the beginning of her sixties, was looking at her with wide, piercing blue eyes, an expression of totally disbelief on her pale face.

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**- R/R, please!Your comments are a great motivation and an help to keep going on! -**


	4. Chapter 4

**- I have three dear friends, two in Italy and one in Switzerland. I do not think I've ever been able to tell them how important they are to me, even though we've known each another for a short time. This is for them. Even if we're going to meet each another tomorrow morning in Milan! -**

**- Thank you all for your kind reviews, the follows and the favorites - they're so very appreciated I can not even start to properly thank you all. They help me going on with the writing, but I must admit that I am really enjoying it too! Mr. Fellowes has really no idea how to make the most of the two of them. -**

* * *

With each second that passed, if possible the woman's eyes grown even bigger in surprise. Freckles, lots of freckles were scattered on her cheeks and sharp nose, and their red colour matched perfectly her long hair, intricately pinned up in a braid on the nape of her neck. The woman gaped for some seconds, as she was unable to articulate a word, and Isobel felt the strange sensation to be scrutinised by her, alike but still different from when it was the Dowager the one who scrutinised her. The woman in front of her was so shocked by her presence that it was almost like she had just seen a ghost.

Trying to ease up the thick silence in which both of them had fell, Isobel tried a nervous smile, offering, "14, Mantleford Crescent? Is it right?"

"Aye..." her voice was thick with her Scottish accent, and the sound of it made Isobel's heart ache.

"I'm Isobel Crawley," she started unsurely, "I'm the - "

"Aye," replied the woman, finally blinking, but still looking at her in shock, "Aye, I ken wha ye are."

"Do you?"

"Of course."

"Well..." Isobel clutched at her small bag, taken by surprise, how on earth did that woman know her? "I'm looking for Doctor Richard Clarkson. He left this address at the hospital if we need to - "

"Of course ye're lookin' for him," again, the woman's words left her aback; why was she so sure that she was looking for him?

"So I take that the address is correct."

"Aye," the big, blue eyes never left her, they just drifted quickly on her face as to study her, to recognise her, "It is."

"Is... is he, the doctor, there, then? Can I talk to him?"

"I..." the grip on the wooden gate grown stronger and the woman's knuckles turned white. Suddenly, Isobel understood something was wrong. She was embarrassing the woman in front of her, she didn't want her there.

She was about to excuse herself for her presence there when the woman let out a small breath, and, without taking off her eyes from her eyes, turned slightly to her right.

"Richard!"

Isobel startled; were he and the woman in such a confidence to allow her to call him by his Christian name in front of an acquaintance of his? Who was she?

"Richard!" she shouted again, "Can ye come down, please?"

"Whit's goin' on? I'm busy, Gretchen!"

"Ye're busy playin' with the children, come haur nou!"

His voice, far away somewhere behind that gate, somewhere up in the house, made her heart flutter and sink shortly after. Children, what children? He had no children, he was not married, who was the woman in front of her, and who were the children she was talking about?

Her eyes fixed on the woman's still shocked face, she could not think anything else than him, him with some children, him with her grandson back at Crawley House, back in Downton... she could just hope that her shock was not to evident on her face.

"Whit's goin' on, Gretchen?"

"Ye hae a visit."

"Wha's that?"

"I -" Gretchen, as the woman seemed to be called, throw her a glance, a rather amused glance now, "I think ye shoud leuk by yerself."

"Oh, great God, Gretchen, why -" the other door-leaf opened with a brisk swing, and Isobel found herself looking straightly into Clarkson's annoyed face. Then he seemed to recognise her, and his annoyed expression changed quickly into a surprised one, as she was the last person he was expecting to seen at his front door. Actually, she was the last person he would expect there.

"Mrs. Crawley."

"Dr. Clarkson."

"What are you doing here?"

Not even a greeting, his annoyed expression back, his icy tone made her heart drop in her chest and she lowered her eyes for a fraction of second, feeling an almighty fool. Truly, what was she doing there? But she had not expected to find a woman with him, had not expected to find him shirt-sleeved, in his work-trousers and waistcoat, without a jacket. Had not expected to find him with a child in his arms, the perfect imagine of a happy family man.

"I -"

"Grandpa Richard!" another child, a baby girl, popped up between him and the woman called Gretchen, interrupting her incoherent rambling, "Ye promised ye will play with hus this efternuin!"

"He's not wir grandpa, ye silly, he's uncle Richard!" another girl, a little bit older, appeared, snuggling next the other.

"He's wir great-uncle, not grandpa nor uncle," came a tired voice and an older red-haired boy pushed away the woman to show himself on the door, "Yese twa will never learn, will yese?"

"Oh, shut up, Finnean!"

"That's enough, children," the woman took the little boy form Clarkson's arms and encouraged the others to go back inside, "Be quite, dinna yese see we hae a guest? Finnean, be kind, take Neil to yer room," the small child curled in what Isobel could imagine were his older brother's arm, "Siobhan, Bonnie, my dears, go play inside with the cat, but dinna yese scare him."

"Aye, Gran!"

"Aye, Gran!"

"Of course, Grandmama."

The two small girls threw themselves back inside the house with an excited squeal, and the baby's answer was lost in his bigger brother's shoulder.

"Richard," the situation now perfectly under her control, the woman finally looked up at him, and he averted with some difficulties his aback gaze from Isobel, "Stay with thaim an' make sure awthin's fine, aye?"

"Aye. Of course. An' Gretchen - "

"Go inside with thaim."

He shot her one last glance and disappeared inside the house, behind that big gate that now seemed an impossible barrier between the two of them.

"Mrs Crawley," Gretchen's voice claimed her attention, "Wad ye come inside for a tea? Ye must be tired."

"No, no, thank you, I'm - "

"I insist, please," the woman took her gently by the elbow, taking her inside, "No one can say that the Clarksons arena nice and canna receive a guest."

Gently, as she had understood that Isobel was quite in shock, Gretchen led hem inside the house, under a brick arch and in a wide, dust court. The two walls on the right looked like a warehouse, and the laughter of the two girls came from the upper floor, closed by a wooden balustrade. A small, white cat came running down from the wooden stairs of the warehouse, and slipped into a door in the opposite stony wall, which seemed to lead to a small shop. On the left, the house was developed on two small floors, a second wooden staircase led upstairs, a small balcony decorated with flowers, the image of a quiet, happy popular house.

Gretchen opened a door on their left and Isobel entered in a small but comfortable kitchen. Led by the other woman, Isobel sat at the table, her trembling hands folded on the cold stony surface, her eyes locked on the woman, fussing around the room.

"I'm sairy for the mess, but livin' with fower children... Finnean is the quieter, an' he helps me, Neil is the bairn of the hoose, but the lassies... well, Siobhan an' Bonnie want to learn hou to cook, so thay're the responsible of this mess," Gretchen smiled at her, trying to ease her discomfort, "So, wad ye like some tea?"

Isobel thought she wanted something stronger, probably needed something stronger, but she simply answered her with an empty, "Yes, please."

"Well!" Gretchen put on the table a small sugar bowl and a plate of homemade biscuits, before turning back to the stove, "Help yerself, Mrs Crawley."

"Who are you?" Isobel blurted suddenly after a while, interrupting the quite silence that filled the room, well aware of her rudeness.

"Gretchen Clarkson. An' the babies are ma beautiful grandchildren. I'm a proud, proud grandmama. I imagine ye know the feelin', dinna ye?"

Another kind smile and Isobel could only nodded, slowly dying inside. _Gretchen Clarkson_. He was married, he had a wife. And they had at least a child, since they had some grandchildren, four grandchildren. So he wasn't about to propose to her, back at Thirsk? Did he just ask her about a second wedding just for curiosity? Was his kindness just kindness, and nothing more?

She felt a big part of her dying under the certainty that she had lost him forever, that she had never truly had him, that she had fallen in love with someone who already had an happy family.

"You know me?"

"Of course," Gretchen gave her her cup of hot tea and smiled that bright, white smile that she know will forever haunt her in her dreams, "Bein' - "

"Gretchen," Clarkson appeared on the doorway of the kitchen, frowning, without so much as a glance to Isobel, "May I talk to you?"

"Nou?"

"Aye, please."

"Of course," Gretchen gave Isobel a small apologetic smile before following him out of the door, "I'm sairy, Mrs. Crawley."

Clarkson took the woman by the elbow and let her out of the kitchen, back in the court, shutting firmly the door behind them before shooting her a deadly glance in the fading light of the early Scottish sunset.

"Whit is she doin' haur?" he hissed, slipping easily in his Scottish dialect.

"In yer modest opinion?" Gretchen raised a red eyebrow to him, "She's leukin' for ye, ye dumb fool!"

"She isnae."

"Yes, ye're right, she has just teuk a pleasant trip to Edinburrie alone in this bright an' sunny part of the Scots year, an' by chance dropped in front of wir door!" she slightly hit him on the shoulder, hissing back to him, "She's leukin' for ye!"

"I dinna see why."

"Dinna ye?" Gretchen's voice was fill of sarcasm, "Ye ken, leavin' ma home an' goin' up to north leukin' for a man, alone... I wad do somethin' like that for ma guidman, surely not for ma _doctur_."

"Ye canna go more north than Edinburrie, Gretchen." he smiled.

She smiled back, freeing herself from his grip, "Ye ken whit I mean, Scottie. Come on, we hae a guest. We canna keep her waitin', can we?"

Coming back to the kitchen, they found Isobel quickly putting her hat on, fussing with her burgundy coat, standing beside the table.

"Whaur are ye goin', Mrs Crawley?"

"Back to the hotel, of course."

Gretchen opened her mouth to answer, but Clarkson was quicker, "Don't be silly. You'll stay here, we surely don't want to leave the grandmother of the heir of the Granthams alone in a small hotel in Edinburgh," he fixed her with a cold glance, before touching slightly Gretchen's arm, "She can have my room."

"No," began Isobel, raising her hand to him, "I don't - "

"My room, Gretchen. Your guest room is something like a cubby-hole, it's not suitable for a lady. I'll sleep there," ignoring her glare, he took his jacket and left the room, "I'll eat at the pub, don't wait for me."

Both the women watched him leave without a word and heard to loud thud when the gate closed behind him. A thick silence, something that seemed to happen awful a lot that afternoon, filled the kitchen, as Isobel looked down at her folded hands and Gretchen began to clean up the kitchen.

"So... you said you know me. Before... before..." sitting, her voice failed her, and she clutched to her mug as if it was her only anchor.

"Afore Richard interrupted hus."

"Yes. You said you know me."

"Well, aye. Being Richard's only sister I ken almost awthin' about ye, Downton, the hospital an' - "

"Being..." Isobel ducked her head to hide her now tearful eyes, a sense of guilty relief invading her chest, "What?"

"Richard's yoonger sister. Gretchen Clarkson. Well, it was Gretchen McKierk, but ma guidman's dead. Nice to meit ye, Mrs Crawley," the woman sat down at the table in front of her, her kind smile always on her lips, "Frae yer face, do I hae to take that ma brither has never talked about me?"

* * *

**- I couldn't, COULDN'T, let her to be someone important to him, if not his sister. I'm not that cruel, poor Isobel! -**

**- I do not speak Scottish (unfortunately), so the terms I've used her come mostly from the internet - actually, from the English wikipedia page about Modern Scots and two other pages about Scottish idiom and vocabulary. I'd like the idea of Gretchen speaking Scottish and I informed myself, and now I want to learn it. If any Scottie is readin' this story, and if I did some catastrophic mistakes, I'm sairy: it is not ma intention to offend onybody. -**

**- Please R/R. _Guid cheerio the nou!_ -**


	5. Chapter 5

**- _Awrite_! I came back alive from Milan, I celebrated the Easter and today I post this for you all - it's just a transition chapter, nothing more, nothing less. -**

**- Thank you all, really. I'll never be tired to thank you all, the followers, who favourited this story, who follows it, who favourited me as an author. Thank you - there's nothing better than reviews to go on with a story. -**

* * *

Notwithstanding what had happened that day, the dinner went better than she had expected. Dining with a lot of people at the same table was something she had grown accustomed to in the last ten years up at the Abbey, but dining with happy and chattering people was something she missed from her days at the hospital in Manchester.

Mrs. McKierk, or Gretchen as she insisted to be called, served the food used to juggle four grandchildren constantly requiring his attention.

Neil, the five-years-old boy, ate silently his food, looking with his big blue eyes at his grandmother all the time, without saying a word, only smiling and giggling happily. Bonnie, the youngest girl, and Siobhan, the oldest, spent the dinner chatting about their little white cat and jokingly disturbing Finnean as he read. The oldest boy, involved in his book, only answered them with some gestures of his hand, finally leaving the table after dinner to go to his room and study.

Above all of this playful mess, above the big stony and woody table of the kitchen, above the clattering sound of dishes and cutlery, above the children's screams and giggles, the miaows of the small kitten, above all reigned Gretchen McKierk née Clarkson, masterfully commanding her ship and her unruly crew through dinner, with her thick and sometimes difficult to understand Scottish accent.

At the end, long after dinner time - it must be nearly ten in the evening by now - all the children disappeared in their respective rooms; Finnean studying, Siobhan and Bonnie telling each another Scottish myths and legends. Only Neil remained, safely nestled in Isobel's arm, sucking absently his thumb, looking at that blonde foreigner at his table.

"I'm sairy, Mrs. Crawley, I dinna notice..." Gretchen stretched her arms through the child "Please, I'll take him. Dinna worry - "

"He's not a nuisance, really," Isobel looked down at the child and smiled, "We really like each another, don't we, little boy?" he giggled and she exhaled deeply, "It has been a lot since the last time I hold a baby boy like him. You know, my grandson is just seven months old and... and..."

"Richard told me 'bout yer son. I'm sairy, really. I ken whit ye mean."

Isobel gave her that vague smile she always offer to anyone tell her he or she understand how it feel to lose a son, his or her only son. But most of them do not know, can not know.

Neil yawned in her arms and let out a small groan of discomfort, taking Isobel away from her sad and gloomy thoughts, "You're tired, aren't you, my dear child?"

"Let me, I'll take him to his scratcher."

"Mrs. McKierk - "

"Just Gretchen, please", she smiled, "Ma guidman's dead, ma Christian name is enough."

"Well..." Isobel bit her lips, embarrassed by all this cordiality towards her, "Gretchen, then. I'll take him to bed, do not worry about it. You already have impede to help you washing the dishes or tidying up the room."

"I dinna want to disturb ye. Ye're wir guest, even if ma brither wisna that kind afore."

Isobel's smile died a little on her lips at his mention, but she quickly ignore it, "I just want to help."

"Are ye sure 'bout it?"

"Of course. I love children and I'm a nurse, just tell me which is his room."

Gretchen smiled at her and gently led her out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the first floor, "Aye. I ken ye're a nurse. Ma brither told me."

"Did he?" trying to conceal her surprise, and the sudden rush of affection towards him, Isobel entered the boy's small room and carefully lowered Neil in his little bed, covering him with the thick sheets and quilt and planting a soft kiss on his cheek. Then, under the gentle smile on Gretchen's lips, she left the room and followed the other woman along the wooden balcony until a big, green door.

Minding that the woman hadn't answered her question yet, Isobel entered in a big room and looked around herself as Gretchen closed the heavy door.

"Yer room, Mrs. Crawley."

"My luggages?" surprised, Isobel took some quick steps towards them and ran an hand on her trunks, "How on earth - "

"Thay arrived while we were havin' wir tatties an' neebs, I suppose."

"But how?"

"Richard maun haes had thaim carried haur," seeing Isobel's astonished expression, she let out a small laugh, "I think he haes asked haur and thaur for yer luggages and easily found thaim. There isnae a lot of English women intil Edinburrie durin' this time of the year."

"I'm wordless," nevertheless, she smiled, touched by his care for her.

"Ma brither is a gentleman, Mrs. Crawley. Even if afore he didna seem it."

"I know he is."

Giving her a sympathetic smile, Gretchen started to help her to partly unpack her luggages, talking restlessly, as sensing her discomfort in that room, in _his_ room. She had never been not even in his cottage at Downton, and now she was going to sleep in his very room, back in Scotland, at his sister's house.

"Thay're nice, arena thay?"

"I'm sorry?"

"My grandchildren. Arena thay nice?"

Isobel smiled sincerely, opening her smallest truck, "They're lovely."

"I adore all of thaim, thay're ma life. Neil is very shy, while Siobhan and Bonnie are ma special laddies, thay are just like me. An' Finnean is just like his grandfaither, all study an' work, even if he's still yoong."

"Was your husband a doctor, too?" Isobel ventured, curious, "Maybe you're a nurse?"

Gretchen let out an amused laugh, "Nay, ma guidman was a tailor. I helped him, an' I'm still workin' as a dressmaker. Finnean wants to be a tailor too," she carefully folded one of Isobel's blouse, "But ma faither was a doctur, an' Richard followd his steps, while Harold an' Gordon are both in the Army."

"Harold and Gordon?"

"Ma ither twa brithers. Harold, Richard, Gordon an' me. I'm the yoongest."

"I see."

"D'ye hae ony brither?"

"One, he lives in Manchester with his family. Edward, he's a doctor. Like my father, and my husband, and - " Isobel blushed and bit her lips, quickly turning from the other woman.

"And ma brither," completed Gretchen with a small, gentle smile.

"Yes," murmured Isobel, before falling into silence, "Like him."

They worked in silence for some minutes, Isobel finally finding the force to breathe some words, "How many children do you have?"

"Twa," answered Gretchen, flashing her a proud smile, "A lass in Glesga, Elma, and ma boy Shawn."

"And the children are...?"

"Shawn's children. All of thaim fower."

"Does your son live in Edinburgh or are the children here momentarily?"

"No, he doesna," murmured Gretchen, her voice now heavy with sadness, before falling into silence "He doesna live haur onymore."

A thick silence filled the room, and Isobel understood that something was quite wrong about her son before she was completely absorbed by her own memories. Little Neil, with his blue eyes and blonde hair, remembered her terribly of her beloved son; and that, plus the emotions of the day, Clarkson's cold and brusque behaviour and his sister's gentle ways - _she was his sister, just his sister!_ screamed her brain-, threatened to overwhelmed her, and Isobel quickly shut her eyes and covered her lips in order to stop the tears she felt forming in her eyes.

Then, suddenly leaving her deep silence, so suddenly that it almost scared her, Gretchen started to chatter happily again about everything, explaining her in the meantime how the house was structured, trying to ease up the deep, sad atmosphere in the room.

"If ye need somethin', ye can ask me. Ma room is the thrid door on this wall, the seicont is wir small bathroom. At the end of the balcony, there are the lassies' room and Finnean and Neil's anes," she hocked some of Isobel's dress in the small wardrobe in the room, admiring them, caressing them with her dressmaker's expert fingers, "I brought up also some water and some biscuits. If ye're guttin this nicht."

"Thank you..."

Isobel felt her voice got caught in her throat and then left her lips in a strangled sob, her chest still heavy with all her memories of the two men she loved most.

"Is awthin' all right, Mrs. Crawley?"

"Where does Doctor Clarkson sleep? Where's the guest room?" Isobel asked embarrassed and lowered her gaze on her embroided nightgown, leaning it carefully on the bed, "I don't think he wants to meet me or talk to me. I should not be here, and surely I should not have take him his room."

"Mrs. Crawley..." began Gretchen softly, leaning the pack of her brother's clothes she had just retrieved from the wardrobe and prepared to bring down for him, "I ken ma brither, an' please, believe me, he's just surprised."

"He does not want me there, and he's right."

"Isobel," Gretchen sat on the bed and patted on the dark quilt to sign her to sit down next to her, "He's just terribly surprised. I ken him, an' by his letters I ken ye. He cares fo' ye a lot, more than whit micht be proper givin' to all of thae poppycocks 'bout yer class-difference and similar stuff."

Isobel gave her a tired smile, "I don't care about class-difference."

"Neitha do I, nor ma brither. Well he, aye, he worried 'bout that, it's fault of all his years in Yorkshire. An' the world does, an' fo' Richard it's difficult. But he admires ye, he cares for ye, he woud like to take care fo' ye, but he canna. I think ye hae became his awthin'."

"I - "Isobel quickly licked her lips, wondering how much Gretchen know about them, "Once - "

"I ken whit has happened last summer. He wrote ma 'bout that, but he coudna nor wadna talk 'bout it," carefully, as she was worried to overstep the boundaries of their recent acquaintance, Gretchen took her hand, "Ye mean a lot to him. Ye're in all of his letters, in all of his calls, he always haes a kind word fo' ye."

"He's a dear man."

"He's the best of man," replied solemnly Gretchen.

Isobel slowly lowered her eyes, her view slightly blurred with unshed tears, and offered her a faint smile, "He had been at my side when my child died."

"I ken."

"And I was so cold to him. He just wanted to help, and... and... and I..."

"I ken. He told me."

"He told you everything."

"Whan ye're not married, yer yoongest sister become yer only confidant."

"He's a lonely man."

"He gave his life to his work. His work is his life. Well, it was, then ye arrived and awthin' changed. I shoud thank ye."

Isobel simply nodded at her words, felling more and more an almighty fool for having not understand at the right time what's going on between the two of them, tears filling again her eyes, tears of anger, tears of sadness.

"Leuk, tomorrow forenuin, at 11, thaur will be the Sunday service up at the kirk," Gretchen gently touched her arm to get her attention, "Wad ye like to come with hus?"

"If I'm not a nuisance, yes," Isobel brushed an hand on her eyes, "I'd like very much."

"Not a nuisance," she kindly reminded her, "A guest. Will ye come even if it's ganna be a Catholic service?"

She blinked in surprise, "You're Catholic?"

"All the Scotties are Catholic. Me, ma brithers, ma children... is that a problem?"

"No, but..." she chuckled, "I never think about it. That explains why I seldom see your brother at the church."

"Oh, dae ye notice whan he's not at the kirk?" Gretchen smiled amused and Isobel blushed, quickly lowering her eyes. Yes, she had noticed when he was present and when he wasn't. She had noticed it and always felt sad when he was not there, or a little bit happier and at her ease when she saw him in the last rows of the church. When he gently touched the brim of his hat to silently greet her.

"The waking up tomorrow forenuin will be at nine o'clock." Gretchen's voice, happy, "Dae ye need ony help to arrange yer hair?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Mc - Gretchen," Isobel corrected herself and smiled, "I can do by myself, I learned it in France, during the war."

"Richard told me 'bout that. It wis very courageous."

"It was silly."

"Courageous, silly, stupid, heroic... no matter whit, ma brither wis worried to death for ye," Gretchen smiled gently, seeing her again moist eyes, "He often called me while ye were away. Ye ken, he bought me a telephain, so he can call hus."

"That's very nice." she said, _and so very Richard's too_, she added softly in her mind.

"He feared somethin' horrible coud happen to ye." Gretchen bit her lips, rising from the bed, "He cares fo' ye, Mrs. Crawley. He loues ye."

"It's Isobel," she reminded her with a smile, but her heart sunk at her words, she was not sure if in happiness or pain, "And no, he doesn't love me. I know him."

"If ye permit me, Isobel, I ken ma brither far more better than ye. Believe me."

"He does not even want me there."

"He's just shocked. An'... well..."

"And?" Isobel frowned, sensing her sudden reticence, "And what?"

"It's somethin' he maun tell ye. Yese twa hae to talk about this all," she slipped out of the door an bade her goodnight with a wave of her hand, "Believe me."

"He left me."

"He's hurt. He's broken-hearth. He coudna stay in Downton onymore. But he loues ye so very much."

* * *

**- And so, I just wanted Gretchen to show some sympathy to Isobel. She is not acting like a third wheel, nor she is a particularly protective sister, she just wants things to settle down - and in the process she has to handle a home and four grandchildren. I adore her. -**

**- R/R, in you have time, if you liked, if you disliked it… just let me know what you think. It will take a little more this time for the next chapter, I'm sorry. See ye efter! -**


	6. Chapter 6

**- So, I did not delayed this as much as I feared. I'm glad about it, it had been quite an awful time - next chapter would be probably really delayed due to some medical examinations I will take in the coming days. So, thanks everybody for the patience, and enjoy! -**

**- The characters belonged to Julian Fellowes, Carnival and ITV, as you all know. Still, reading here and there, I'm more and more persuaded that he cannot really use them at their best. Again, lets hope in season 4 (rambling post, I know) -**

* * *

"Oh, thaur ye are!"

In the small court, Gretchen flashed her a smile, giving her a nod. In the best Scottish tradition, she was wearing a long dress made of brown tartan and a white blouse, covered by a dark short cloak. A tartan hat covered her red hair, pinned up even more intricately than the day before.

Isobel smiled shyly, descending the wooden stairs, "I'm not in late, am I?"

"Ye arena," Gretchen left her spot near her grandson and approached her, "Did ye sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you. It just took a lot of time to arrange my hair. You were right, maybe I had fancied a little help. I'm usually faster, I'm sorry."

"Oh, dinna be. It teuk ye a lot of time, but the result is huir uv a guid." her smile grown imperceptibly bigger, "Ye're huir uv a nice."

"I'm not - "

"We're in late, aren't we, Gretchen?"

"We were waitin' fo' ye, brither."

His voice, as well as his sudden presence near her, blocked her for some seconds. Then she was back to reality and saw him playful greeting his grandnephews, dishing all around smiles and kisses, with Gretchen fussing at his side trying to arrange his Sunday coat and hat.

She came quickly to realise that she wanted to be in Gretchen's place, she wanted to be the one arranging his coat and hat, as well as a small part of her mind pointed out that he was not wearing his usual grey suit, but a black one. The same he had worn at the funeral of her son, and it screeched with the joy that he was showing playing with his grandnephews.

The he looked up at her, and the cold expression was back, the formality back at its place. "Mrs. Crawley."

She clutched her black purse and tried a smile, "Dr. Clarkson."

"I hope you have had a quiet night."

"Yes, thank you. I hope the same for you?"

He just nodded in reply, his gaze lost in the distance. He then walked to his sister, leaving her behind in the small court, aside, quite far from him and his big and cheerful family, making her feel the intruder she knew she was.

"Shoud we go, sister?"

"Aye."

He gallantly offered her his arm, but Gretchen shook her head in denial and patted his slightly outstretched hand, "Finnean wad escort me to the kirk this forenuin," she grabbed the boy's arm and he smiled at her, "I think ye shoud escort wir guest, dinna ye think?"

"What?"

"I don't need an escort, Gretchen, really," Isobel came to their side and interrupted him, looking with wide eyes at the other woman, "I'll walk by myself."

"Gretchen?"

"I told her to call me with ma name," she quickly answered her brother's surprised voice, before raised an eyebrow to their guest, "An' aye, Isobel, believe me. It's better fo' ye to hae an escort. Just give hus a moment."

She quickly grabbed her brother for the sleeve, left the small group and drew him in a corner, shooting him a deadly gaze, her hands on her hips, "Ye'll escort her."

"Whit - "

"I dinna think ye wanna her be the main argument of the rumours of wir parish, wanna ye?"

"Of course not, I - "

"Ye hae always been careful 'bout her reputation, ye told me."

"But thay wad assumed wese are..." Clarkson went silent, lowering his eyes, letting out a chocked groan.

She smiled and gently caressed his arm, "Thay wad assumed yese are a couple."

"Wese arena," he answered her angrily, hissing the words, "She doesna want it."

"She's haur fo' ye, not fo' me. Yese twa hae to solve this."

"Thay wad assumed somethin' wrong."

"Thay wad assumed somethin' I hope will become true."

"Dinna be silly, Gretchen."

"I'm not bein' silly. I'm just hopin' fo' ye to be happy with her."

* * *

Walking to the church, following the small street in front of the house and then going up a small, bushy hill, entering the church graveyard, Isobel had the clearly impression she was observed. Surely she must be a news for the parish, surely the parishioners would assumed things that weren't true - _or were they?_ Of course they weren't, he merely talked to her-, and surely she would excite the curiosity of the people.

Yet she was sure he was the one who was looking intently at her right now, but when she finally raised her sad glance to him, he was looking into the distance, attentively following the children with his eyes. Stifling in her throat a sigh, Isobel lowered her eyes again, losing herself in the grass and flowers.

So, when he finally spoke out loud what he was thinking, he caught her by surprise, both with his voice and his words.

"You're beautiful today."

Isobel blinked and quickly looked up at him again, but he was still looking in front of them. Nevertheless, the pressure of his arm on hers were they were linked had grown to be slightly uncomfortable.

"I - " she tried her best smile, a bright, grateful smile, "Thank you."

"I only speak the truth"

He went silence again, walked her up to the tip of the hill exiting the small graveyard, and shortly after left her with an absent smile at the gate of the church, adducing as an excuse to have to control the children.

So she stay there, all alone, in front of a small Catholic church. Bricks made of dark grey stone, the church was similar yet different from their one back in Downton. She could not tell what was different, maybe the people, maybe the arrangement of the flowers, maybe the mere fact of knowing that, for the first time in her life, she was going to attend a Catholic function.

Curious, she took up one of the small books left in an ordinate pile on a table near the church gate, opened it, and found it full of beautiful hymns she had never known nor heard about. A good singer since she was young, Isobel read the first notes, singing them in her head, and then going on in a low voice, enjoying the feeling of that cheerful song on her lips, while she was still wearing her mourning dresses.

"Are ye haur 'lone?"

A rough, male voice entered her thoughts unexpected and unpleasant, and she turned backwards, perplexed, "I'm sorry?"

"Is such a beautiful yet foreign lass here all 'lone or d'ye hae soebody? D'ye need company?"

"No," answered Isobel, feeling uncomfortable under the man's gaze, "I - "

"She's with me."

And, suddenly, Clarkson was back again at her side, nearer than he had ever been, one hand on her elbow, the other on her hip, as to make clear the fact. "Go 'way, Connor."

"Dickie. Ye hae finally managed to bring a lass home. Is she yer woman?"

"No," his hiss in her ear made her shiver and she leaned more on his side, feeling safe with him.

"Then I think I can woo an' court her as better as I can, canna I?"

His hand squeezed her waist tightly and the pressure on her elbow drove her quite insistently inside the church, "I say she's with me. Stay 'way," he shot the man on last cold gaze, leaving him, "Come inside, Isobel."

She felt a pang in her chest and shortly after a rush of affection towards him as he led her down the aisle to his sister, his hand never leaving her back and her elbow, showing everybody there she was his guest.

"Whit haes happened?" murmured Gretchen as soon as they were near her on the seat.

"Connor O'Dale thought it would be a great idea to propose himself as Mrs. Crawley's suitor." he hissed back.

"I told ye ye wad escort her..."

"I'm sorry," ventured Isobel in a small voice, lightly touching his arm, "I was reading and - "

"We can not leave you alone for a minute and you immediately get to know the worst people in Edinburgh!" his angry hissed words struck her and left her wordless. Then he seemed to realised it, seemed to notice her wide moist eyes and her trembling lower lip, which she was biting with all her force, because he let out a hand and gently caressed her arm, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to be that rude. It's just... I don't like him. Nobody likes him."

Isobel nodded and turned away from him, lowering her eyes on the book which she was still holding in her hands. She was confused. He was so cold and distant with her, yet he had came to her rescue with that man. He had just angrily scolded her, only to apologise for his behaviour a moment later. Perplexed, a little hurt by his words, she concentrated on what was happening around them.

* * *

"Is that your husband's grave?" Isobel asked softly after the function, reaching Gretchen near a light grave in the back of the graveyard, hoping not to scare or disturb the dear woman.

"No, it isnae. Ma guidman's grave is that ane," she pointed to a near tombstone, with a sad smile, "That's ma son's," Gretchen looked around, frowning, "Whaur's ma brither?"

"He said he has something to do near the church, it wouldn't take long," Isobel answered, then Gretchen's words hit her hard, right in the chest, "What does it mean it's your son's grave?" she asked, horrified.

"It means whit it means. Haur I buried Shawn. An' his wife Alma too."

Isobel went silent, lowering her eyes respectfully. "You didn't tell me last night."

"I told ye he dinna live haur onymore," replied Gretchen gently, as to make her understand it was alright, as much as alright it can be. "Ma son died durin' the war. In France, in the januar of 1918. It was a braw, stoaner winter. His wife haed just gave birth to Neil whan she fall ill. I was 'lone, an' Richard wisna thaur. He coudna come up thaur, he haed to much work in Downton. An' Alma was weaker an' weaker, an' she catch ae fever. I did whit I was able to, but she died, at the beginnin' of the year. I was mournin' her whan the Army told me ma son was dead too."

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry..." murmured Isobel, even if knowing perfectly well how empty her words were, "I really am."

"I ken. Ye lost a son too. An' in the worst way evah."

"It wasn't fair," somehow, Isobel managed to choke back her sob, "It wasn't fair to him, nor to me, nor to his wife and baby-boy."

"Life is rarely fair, Isobel," Gretchen offered her a smile, standing up from her son's grave where she had just put a small bouquet, "But… ilka life is a pile of guid things and bad things. The guid things dinna always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things dinna spoil the guid things. I ken that losin' a child is the worst, more stoaner thing that can happen to a mammy, but… now ye haes a bairn, his bairn, to remind ye of him ilka days. Ye can try to overcome the loss of yer lad thanks to his bairn. Try to think 'bout it in this way," Gretchen took her arm gently, mowing her away from the graves, and smiled, "It worked with me and ma losses."

"There you are," returning to the small rocky path to the cemetery, the two women almost went crashing into the doctor, "The children are waiting for you, sister."

"Aye, thank - " she stopped, widening her light eyes, "Richard, whit haes happened to yer lip?" frowning, Gretchen lifted her hand to her brother's mouth, gently caressing the cut.

"A frisk exchange of opinions between me and Connor O'Dale," he jerked his head backwards, "Gretchen, hold still, fo' God's sake."

"Whit did he do this time?"

"Nothing to be worried about. I've already solved the problem."

"Oh, did ye?"

"Aye, like true Scotsman," he offered his arm to Isobel, still not looking at her, "Shall we go back home?"

* * *

Walking back home, her hand tucked again in Clarkson's elbow, feeling comfortable for the first time since she had arrived in Edinburgh, Isobel looked at the younger woman, chattering at their side, chattering about her grandchildren and talking about her son as he was still alive.

They were so very similar. Both of them were daughters of doctors, and sisters of doctors - even if Richard Clarkson and her brother Edward couldn't be more different.

Both of them were widows, and both of them had raised almost single-handedly their children - Gretchen raising fine two children all alone.

And then they had both lost their sons, Gretchen during the war, Isobel in that absurd car accident in the happiest day of her son's young life.

They were so similar, yet so different. Gretchen had managed to get over her grief, building again her life around her grandchildren, raising and protecting them, trying to assure them a safe future.

Isobel, instead, had closed herself up in her world of loneliness and grief, refusing any help, folding her life around her terrible lost.

Refusing any help, refusing and chasing away the only person who, maybe, probably, with all of his heart and soul, would had helped her through her grief.

Right now, she was at his arm, closed by his side, he showing all the others he cared for her, protecting and defending her from the rumors, but Isobel knew she had never felt him so far from her like in that very moment.

* * *

**- R/R please, you're fantastic! -**

**- A/N: I don't know if you have noticed it, but here, as well as in two chapters before, I paid a small tribute to my favourite TV series - which, unfortunately, isn't Downton Abbey, but another one. I wrote it just to say that's just a tribute, NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT INTENDED. Just to silence my conscience. And to challenge you to find the references ;) -**


	7. Chapter 7

**- I like the idea of Gretchen being sort of a counterpart to Isobel, someone who, apart for the doctor, of course, can show her that her life will go on, even difficulty, after her son's death - that's why I made her tell Isobel about her own son, even if it's not strictly connected to our history (it's also because I adore her! I cannot get tired of using her!) -**

* * *

Isobel closed silently the door of the sitting room and started to collect cups and plates from the children's afternoon snack. After a big, happy Sunday lunch, during which they had all chattered and laughed - during which she had felt wonderfully at ease, paradoxically at home and happy again, during which she had saw him happy and relaxed, talking with his grandchildren and helping her feed the youngest-, after the afternoon nap when the two women had sewed in Finnean's company, the children woke up and asked for their snack, before going out with their grandmother to go playing in the nearby fields.

And so, reassured a doubtful Gretchen, properly dressed up and covered the children and young Finnean too, Isobel had watched them all going out to spend an happy afternoon together, carrying with them a small basket and a kite; taking for herself the task of tidying up the sitting-room and maybe also the kitchen.

She liked to be useful to Gretchen, she had been so gentle and kind with her in those two days... first of all, greeting her in their house and not leaving her alone in her inn. Then treating her as she was a member of their family, ably acting as an intermediary between her and her silent and standoffish brother, so that they could avoid difficult and embarrassing situations.

Humming happily under her breath, Isobel collected the plates on the table, carefully tidying her fingers on her apron, leaving there some traces of red jelly and purple jam. The living room was a small rectangular room, where Gretchen and her grandson spent their time sewing when they were not in their modest store. The walls were covered with dark wood, and the large fireplace at the end of the room gave an idea of warmth and familiarity, as well as the two armchairs, the dark carpet in front of the fire and the sofa. Maybe it was a room too dark and oppressive coloured, but it was home, and she had seen the family spend happy moments here.

Then, without a reason, she looked up and her eyes fell on the mantelpiece and on the photos on it. Her apron discarded on a chair, Isobel went to the fireplace, arranged the low fire and then took up some frames, observing the sepia photos carefully.

There was one with three young men and a young woman, and Isobel presumed they were Gretchen and her brothers; some single photos of young people, and Isobel recognised for sure a younger Gretchen, with her freckles and her long curly hair, and a younger Clarkson, dresses in a military uniform similar to the ones she had seen during the Boer War, back at that time. Than the children, all of them, single photos, other men, Gretchen and who she supposed was her late husband, a photos with a couple.

She picked it up, intrigued. It was a picture from past, at least fifty years before, and the style of the clothes reminded her of her childhood in Manchester, when she and her brother were still too small to worry about their future, but already interested in the work of their father.

The serious expressions of the young couple, almost sad, stressed the importance of the event, even though she did not know what it was. The woman, sat on a high-baked chair, wore an elegant but simple and dark dress, with plenty of lace on the chest, but few other frills.

The man, standing at her side, wore a serious black suit, his hat under his arm and a modest watch-chain visible on the waistcoat, a white line on dark fabric, the pocket-watch hanging from his free hand, the other protectively holding the woman's shoulder. His light moustache was so familiar to her that she smiled almost involuntarily, softly caressing the photo with her fingertips.

"Those are my parents."

Isobel suppressed a gasp in surprise and the photo fall from her hands, landing softly on the thick red rug in front of the fire. His voice, devoid of its Scottish accent when at her presence, had caught her off guard, startling her.

Clarkson bent over, took up the frame and carefully placed it again in Isobel's hands, smiling down at the couple in the picture, his shoulder barely touching hers.

"You're back," she murmured, hoping he had not seen her caressing the photo, "Where are the children?"

"Somewhere playing with their grandmother. I don't like the idea of leaving our guest alone at home, working and cleaning up in place of my sister, so I came back earlier," he took his pocket-watch and glanced down at it, "Anyway, it's almost dinner-time, they will be back soon."

"That's the very same watch, isn't it? Your father's watch," Isobel pointed at the photo, than back to his hand. He nodded, smiling so slightly, probably his first, real, smile to her in those two days, "You shouldn't have came back, really. But thank you."

"My pleasure."

"Yes," she swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous, trying to change subject, looking back at the picture following his fond gaze, "So, your parents?"

"My father, Harold, and my mother, Lillian. He was a doctor," there was a note of pride in his voice, and she smiled up at him, but he had eyes only for the two people in the picture, "My mother was an housewife."

"You look a lot like your father," she replied without thinking, giddy by his presence at her side, by his pleasant cologne, "But you have your mother's mouth."

As soon as the words left her lips, Isobel blushed when she realised what she had implied and tried to apologise, but he was faster, "Have you noticed my mouth in all of this years?"

She gasped again, surprised, taken aback, "I - "

Sensing her discomfort, he nudged her lightly and lowered the photo on the mantelpiece, "I was kidding."

_I wasn't_, she wanted to answer, realizing she had noticed his lips and his kind smile, and has recently found herself thinking about how it would be feeling those same lips to hers; but she just stayed there, looking at the photos with him. Hadn't she just heard a touch of regret in his warm voice?

"And these?" Isobel pointed to the biggest photo, trying to ease up the mood, "Are these your brothers?"

"Aye," he picked up the photo, showing it to her. The three young men were all dressed in their military suites, but two of them were dressed differently from the man she knew was a younger Clarkson.

"Harold and Gordon?"

He raised an eyebrow to her, "You know of them?"

She shrugged, "Your sister tell me their names, and little more. They are in the Army, aren't they?"

"Yes, both of them. In India," he chuckled at her surprised expression, "They left when they were young and now they're both officers in the British Indian Army. Harold is the oldest, and of course he was called after our father. I'm the second, and Gordon the third. Gretchen is the smallest," he smiled again, "I'm the only one who followed our father's step, even if Gordon sometimes worked as a doctor in the Indian Army."

She smiled softly, touched by his evident pride and affection towards his siblings, and looked again at the photo of the four youths, but her eyes fall instead on his hand; she gasped softly.

"Doctor, you hurt your hand too."

Clarkson bended his long fingers a little, grimacing when the bruises on his knuckles opened again and started bleeding, "Well, I told you before it was quite an animate exchange of opinions."

"Let me help you," she took the frame from his hand and put it again on the mantelpiece, "Sit down, I'll fetch some water to clean the bruises."

"Don't worry, really. My sister had already cleaned it."

"I like her, doctor, but she's a dressmaker. And I'm a nurse," she gently obliged him to sit on the armchair near the fireplace and smiled, "Let me."

"But - "

"Hush, now."

Aware of his surprised look on her, Isobel smiled slightly to herself, turning her back to him. She went back to the kitchen, opened some lockers here and there, and finally find the bowl she needed. Quickly, Isobel scalded some water and put some salt in it, remembering her first lessons as a nurse, when she was so much younger, when her sons bruised his knees playing. Smiling sadly, she withdrew the water from the fire of the stove, put it in the bowl and came back to him, grabbing some white, clean towels in the meantime.

She kneeled at his side on a small green cushion and carefully took his hand in hers, ramming his bruises with the wet cloth. Clarkson hissed in pain, and she blowed gently on his hand, trying to soothe him.

"What has happened?"

"A punch. On my mouth, outside the graveyard. So I punched Connor O'Dale back on the face and broke his nose, I think."

She gasped and looked up at him with wide eyes, "What?"

"Isobel, when a Scotsman says he has had a 'animate exchange of opinions' with another Scotsman, it means they have had a fight," he smiled gently, "And I'm proud to say I won."

She giggled, passing the wet cloth on his hand again, "Matthew too had some 'animate exchanges of opinions' when he was at university," she said, and for the first time the thought of her son did not hurt her so much, "But why?"

"I don't like when someone offend my guests."

"Well, that's a noble bearing, but... oh," blushing furiously, she was glad the light in the room was dim, so he cannot see her aflame skin, the redness creeping up her neck to cover her cheeks, "Oh. Thank you. That was very kind."

"What he said about you wasn't kind," he shrugged, looking out of the window, "I had to correct him."

"Thank you."

His only response was a quick squeeze of his hand on hers, then he fall into silence again, and she went on with her work, cleaning all the bruises - they were quite a lot and all quite dirty.

"You never told me anything about your family," she murmured after a while, her eyes fixed on his hand, "I didn't know you had a sister. Or brothers, or such lovely grandnephews."

"You never asked me," he answered simply, shrugging again as if it wasn't important, looking down at her, but her eyes was lowered on his hand, "We never talked about anything but the hospital back in Downton. Nothing but the hospital, our patients, the other nurses… never about us."

"You're right," she carefully wiped a deep bruise on a knuckles and smiled when he tried to suppress another hiss.

"So…" he faltered juts a little, and Isobel had the clear impression he was trying to be kind to her after his brusque behaviour in those days, "What about your family? How's your brother?"

"You remember I have a brother."

"I remember everything you've told me in those years, Isobel. You told me about him when you first arrived in Downton."

"I see…" again, she disinfected his hand with the hot salted water, trying to, and failing, not feel too touched by his words, "Yes, I have a brother. Seven years older than me, he lives and works in Manchester. His name is Edward, as our grandfather, and John, like our father. He's a doctor, of course, he's married, I don't like his frivolous wife, and he has a son and a daughter, Edward Jr. and Peony," she giggled, "He called his daughter like that because the flower peony was used in medicine. It's also one of my favourite."

"It looks like you're very fond of him. And he of you."

"As you to your sister," she replied quietly, "I've been blessed with an intelligent, caring and protective brother. You have a lovely sister, so I think you can understand what I mean," she finally dried for the last time his hand and tied up the small bandages she had manage to make with the second towel, "Here you are."

"You shouldn't have worried you about that, but thank you", he murmured, almost mirroring her previous words. He stood up, nodded his thanks to her and went to the fireplace, carefully taking again the family photo from the mantelpiece, looking at it with a fond smile.

"Thank you for making me remember I care so much for my far away brothers."

"My pleasure," Isobel smiled, "Are they married? Do they have a family?" she put aside the bowl of hot water and went to stand next to him, looking at the picture from behind his shoulder.

Clarkson smiled at her words, "They are, even if I don't exactly know how many nephews I have down there. I'm sure Harold has at least three sons and a daughter, while Gordon should have two daughters. One is married to an English officer in Bombay, a Kipling guy. Communications with India are not that easy, so we do not hear of them very often."

"Do you missed them?"

"Of course I do. They're my brothers, my family."

Isobel nodded, enjoying the feeling of being so close to him, in the comfortable intimacy of the room, warmed up by the fire and by his very presence, the fact that he was finally talking to her as they were back home in their hospital. She was so absorbed in the relaxed atmosphere that her next question slipped out of her lips before she could even thought about stopping it, and she regretted it almost immediately.

"Why have you never got married?"

He tensed immediately at her side, and Isobel understood that she had just lost that small intimacy and confidence they had managed to recover in the previous half an hour.

"I've never found the right woman," he briskly drew from the fireplace - and from her, making his way through the door of the sitting room, "For some times, it looked like I had finally found her. I was wrong."

"Richard - "

"Yes, Mrs. Crawley?"

His icy tone back, so similar to the one when he had first met her at his gate, his cold, distant, almost annoyed eyes were something she couldn't bear, and Isobel lowered her head, partly to hide her tears, partly to not let him see her distress, "Nothing important. Good night, doctor."

"Good night."

* * *

**- A/N: I took Isobel's brother and father's names from the _Downton Abbey - The Complete Script - Season 1_ book, more specifically from the extended deleted scene in which she told Clarkson about her relatives - actually, her brother is mentioned as _Edward_ only, but I like the idea of _John_ as his middle name, like his father. It sounds like something quite usual at the time, doesn't it? Like Matthew's second name after his father. -**

**- Harold and Gordon Clarkson as officers of the British Indian Army is a small tribute to the amazing book I'm reading right now - _The Great Game_, by Peter Hopkirk. What a fantastic book! The same for the reference to Kipling; of course it's not that Kipling, but Rudyard Kipling too wrote a book about the Great Game (_Kim_), so I wanted to remember him too - random A/N, as always. -**

**- R/R, please :D -**


	8. Chapter 8

**- So, while I was writing this, I informed my dear friend TeaPowder (_ciao!_) that this chapter would be a) quite difficult to write and b) quite sad, so she jokingly told me I was a "_sadist, cruel and bad person_" (cit.) because of this story. So I got a little carried away, wrote down a monstrous long chapter, and now you have to blame her if in the end I split up the it in two and put the confrontation between Isobel and Richard in the next one. Blame her, not me! -**

**- The truth is that I wanted, and needed, another transition chapter, just to create a little more expectation and curiosity about it. And to add some more details here and there. -**

* * *

"Coud ye take that fo' me?"

Isobel raised her eyes from her embroidery work and looked at Gretchen. The younger woman was handing her something and carefully Isobel took it, an elegant victorian ring with a tiny, blue, glittering stone on the top, enveloped by elegant floral volutes of thin silver.

"Is this your wedding ring?" she asked, impressed by the beauty of the jewel, by the fine work of jewellery, it was surely a rare piece of art.

"Oh, no, it isnae. It's ma mother's ring. I usually wear it, but with the hot water I'll damage it."

"It's really beautiful."

Gretchen simply smiled, starting collecting dishes and cutlery from the breakfast, putting away the bread in its basket. For sometimes they both worked in silence, lost in their own thoughts, Isobel focused on the complicated embroidery, Gretchen busied rearranging her messy kitchen. Then she stopped with a sigh, as she was about to do something she didn't want to.

"Whit haes happened atween ye and ma brither?"

Isobel's head snapped up, "What?"

"Whan ye arrived some days ago, the twa of yese barely spoke to each anither. Now, he doesna even look at ye, let alone say something. He haesna spoken to you for three whole days. Whit haes happened?"

"Nothing..." Isobel quickly lowered her eyes, losing herself in the black embroidery design.

"Isobel, I care both fo' ma brither an' fo' ye, and whit's goin' on is hurtin' both of yese. Whit - "

"I made the wrongest question at the wrongest time," Isobel brusquely answered her, not taking her eyes from her intricate needlework, "That's all."

"When wese were out, on Sunday?"

"Yes..."

"Ah," Gretchen lowered in the basin the dirt dishes she was carrying in her arms and looked at her, "Whit did ye ask him?"

Isobel sighed, defeated, "I asked him why has he never got married."

His sister went silent, her eyes widening in surprise, "Well, aye. It wisna - "

"It was the silliest question I could ever asked to him."

"Aye, exactly whit I mean, thank ye fo' puttin' in in such clear words."

"I was... I don't know what I was thinking. But I was happy, we were talking about your brothers in India, and he was so kind to me, and was talking so fondly about them, and it just slipped from my lips."

"And then?"

"And then he left. I made him think I was still rejecting him, that I didn't understand what he felt for me," she gave an ill-humoured small laugh, "Which is quite ironic, given the fact I totally understand him, since I'm feeling the same way towards him."

"Ye loues him."

It wasn't a question, rather a simple sentence, a truth. Isobel finally raised her eyes from her needlework, and looked at Gretchen, feeling her lips stretching in a small smile and her eyes welling up with tears, "I do."

"It wisna that hard to admit."

"You're wrong," a sob escaped her lips and she brushed a hand on her eyes, "It was hard to admit, it isn't to say it out aloud," she stopped, realising what she had just said, and had the grace to blush, "Well I... I should probably talk to him, then."

"Aye, ye shoud."

"But he's not here," she had finally set her mind, accepting to confront him, something that her mind had repeated her almost everytime in the last days, and said it out aloud to his sister only seemed to reenforce her decision. She had set her mind and he was not there, something that seemed to be quite recurrent in the last months; when she decided something about him, about them, he was not there for her, "I've barely seen him in those days..."

"Well... that so huir uv a Richard's. Immergin' himself in work to get iver a delusion. Last time I saw him doin' somethin' like that, he left for Downton. An' it was somethin' like thirty-five years ago."

"After a love-delusion?" Isobel asked, feeling a sudden pain in her chest at the idea, but Gretchen's merry laugh dispelled her worries.

"Who? Richard?" the younger woman laugh again, as if the simple idea was something terribly funny, drying her hands on a towel, "Oh, Gawd, no! It was a work delusion. He wanted to teach at the Edinburrie varsity, as professur, but the son of a nobleman stole him the job. He was so angry with awbody he threw himself in work, and then he left for Downton. So, dinna worry 'bout that," with a smile, she gently touched her hand, "There haes never been significant women in Richard's life. Maybe some flirts, that's all. But ye... ye are his life."

Isobel smiled too, finally admitting something she had slowly accepted within herself in the last weeks, saying it out aloud "He had became my life too. He, and my grandson, of course."

"Then talk to him."

"It's not going to be that simple, and you know that - " Isobel interrupted herself, shooting a long silent glare to Gretchen, understanding something, "You know why he's not talking to me"

"Well, I -"

"Gretchen?" his voice silenced them both as he entered the room, his hat in his hand.

"Oh, thaur ye are!" his sister smiled at him, standing up "I was lookin' fo' ye!"

"Yes, I know" he replied, slowly moving his eyes from his sister to Isobel and back, "Finnean came to the surgery telling me you need to see me. What's that?"

"Aye. I need ye to go to the market," Gretchen took a big basket from near the basin and put it in his arms, "Go an' do the shoppin', thaur's a list of whit I need."

"But -"

"An' I'm sure Isobel will accompany ye gladly," she shoot the older woman a quick glance, widening the eyes, daring her to say otherwise, "I need to finish that dress."

"I can finish it for you," replied Isobel hastily, quite aware of his eyes on her, "There's no need -"

"I'll see ma customer today, so I maun be haur fo' her. Come on," she gently but firmly helped Isobel on her feet, and then pushed her towards the door, "Ye need to go nau, or the best fruit wad be gone by the time ye twa reached the market!"

"But the people -"

"I dinna care whit people will think! I need thae fruit, and some ither food too, so go!" quickly crossing the court, she finally pushed them both out of the red gate, smiling broadly, "I also hae to cook the lunch, so try not to be thaur to soon, aye?"

* * *

"Let me carry that for you."

"Really, there's no need -"

"Isobel, for goodness sake, that basket is awfully heavy even when almost empty, give it to me!"

"Here, to you," she handed him the basket quite brusquely, "There's no need to be that rude."

"Sorry, I just..." he trailed off and seemed to struggle with words.

"You wanted to be a gentleman."

"I don't want you to get tired or hurt." he replied, not looking at her but in the distance, as he lately seemed to do quite often when talking to her.

"Thank you," she shyly touched his hand, "That's very kind."

He only nodded and offered her his arm to led her through the stands of the market, reading in the meantime Gretchen's long list.

"She needs apples," Isobel murmured, stretching out herself over his arm to be able to read, "And pears and sugar. It looks like she will do some jam in the afternoon," she pointed at the piece of paper, "And some baking powder. More likely, she'll do a cake."

"Then we need to go to the greengrocer stand, down there," Clarkson gently tugged her arm and she followed him, "And please, Mrs. Crawley... Isobel," he stopped and glanced down at her, "Stay by my side. I'm afraid this isn't the best neighbourhood in Edinburgh, I don't want you to get lost or meet somebody troublesome."

"Like your friend at the church?"

"He's not my friend!" he replied, indignant.

"I hope well, you broke his nose!"

"He offended you."

"And you defended me and my reputation."

"Somebody has to do that," she was sure he blushed slightly while talking, but he turned his head so quickly she couldn't make him notice that. Instead, she followed him without a word, respecting his sudden, heavy silence.

"Here we are," he stopped again a dozen of stands later, showing her a small but well furnished greengrocer stall, "Gretchen and I always buy fruit and vegetables here. What do we need?"

"Apples and pears," she reminded him, absently, taking up some fruits and examining them, "About ten of them. Not too mature, but not even too early."

"You better chose them, then. I'll just pay."

"Alright," she nodded and handed the seller some apples, before resuming her task with the pears, humming happily under her breath. Then she let out a small laugh and he looked at her, quite surprised.

"What's so funny about pears and apples?"

"It has been a lot of time since the last time I did the grocery shopping by myself," she answered with a smile, "I was still in Manchester and Matthew was still a baby. In Downton it was Mrs. Bird the one in charge of it. And of course Matthew would have not accompanied me anymore," she added, a sad smile creeping on her lips at the memory of her son as a baby.

"I don't think so," Clarkson stretched out a hand to gently brushed her hand, "He was a sensible lad. I'm sure he would have accompany you if you so wanted."

"Thank you, Richard."

"How much do you miss him?" he asked, without needless turns of phrase, "How much does it still hurt? You're still wearing black..."

"Awfully a lot. I don't think I can explain it properly. It's like edging every day a black, deep hole, and I don't know what's holding me back to throw myself in it," she replied quietly, her eyes lowered on the fruit, thanking that the sellers had left them alone to attend another customer, "Every day, every night without him is a torture, and sometimes I just wish I'll not wake up the morning after," she heard him hitching his breath and returned his touch on her hand to reassure him, "But it's not what Matthew probably would have wanted for me. And your sister helped me understand life goes on. Even if it's difficult."

"You know you're not alone in this, don't you?"

For a brief second, she thought about taunt him she was alone because he had left her, but then remembered he had left only because of her behaviour. So she just smile up at him, hoping to give him a grateful smile.

"I do. Thank you."

Relieved to see him smiling in turn, Isobel went back to carefully choosing the fruit, letting a thought forming in her mind, thinking about how to expose it to him. She came around it for a few minutes in silence, but in the end she decided to face it head-on.

"You know, it's something we should do more often back at home," she breathed finally, speaking quickly.

Clarkson looked at her, perplexed, "Do what?"

"Do the shopping by ourselves. We can do it for the hospital, as well for our kitchens. And we should really go to Ripon to find the best vegetables. Together, maybe."

"Yes, we should..."

She sensed his suddenly cautious and not enthusiast tone of voice, and tried to look him in his eyes, failing. Her heart dropped a little in her chest.

"Have you thought about coming back to Downton?"

He let out a heavy sigh, "We should go back home."

"Have you?"

"No, I haven't. I don't know."

"But Richard -"

"I know Gretchen had told us to stay away as much as possible, but we have finished the shopping," again, he was looking away from her, ignoring her questions, all the warmth in his voice was gone for the umpteenth time, "We can go back."

She sighed, defeated, colliding again with his coldness when talking about those arguments, "Alright."

He paid the greengrocer without saying a word, paying what to Isobel seemed awful a lot for some fruit, and offered his arm to her again; she took it, more for a mere habit than for real need, specially since he seemed to have fall again in his cold and hostile silence.

Then, quite suddenly, his grip on her arm grown stronger, almost uncomfortable. Perplexed, she looked up at him, only to find his face crunched in a grimace, his wide brown frowned in concentration. He looked worried, or angry, but she couldn't decide, two emotions she had both seen on his face in those days. Gently, she touched his wrist to get his attention.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," he replied shiftily, "I'm thinking."

"May I help?" Isobel frowned in turn, "You look so uneasy..."

"I don't think so," his eyes flickered to her face for a second, then came back to look in front of him, "Since you're the reason why I'm uneasy."

"Oh. I see."

They both went silent. Deep in her heart, Isobel knew, or, better, felt, he was thinking about her last words at the market, thinking about his return to Downton one day, and she couldn't help asking herself if she had asked him in the wrong why ever and in the wrong moment ever. Smiling ruefully to herself, she realised that both of them were quite good in asking right things in the worst occasions possible.

Stopping in front of his house, after a long walk of silence and quick glances to her now sad yet beautiful face, Clarkson took out a bronzed heavy key and opened for her the red gate, letting her in firstly, "You know," he began suddenly, talking more to her throat and shoulder than to her face, "I could consider to idea of coming back to Downton."

"I'm glad," she threw him a smile, a flicker of hope dancing in her chest, "I bank on it."

"So I take the twa of ye enjoyed yer trip to the market?" Gretchen emerged from the kitchen, smiling at their now surprised expression, "Ye both look quite happy, with thir bright smiles on yer faces."

Isobel blushed and subconsciously covered her lips with a hand, but Clarkson was quicker and answered his sister with his best polite voice, "We had a nice talk about markets and shopping. So yes, we enjoy our trip."

"Aye, I'm sure 'bout it," the younger woman shrugged, smiling more smugly at them, but dropped the subject, "Here, give me the basket. An', brither, a doctur called ye while ye war away. He left his phain number so ye can call him back, said it isnae urgent. But I hae forgot the name, I'm sairy."

"Right, thank you."

He left, leaving the two women chatting in the kitchen, sorting out what they had just bought at the market. When he came back, ten minutes later or less, his face was grim and something in his attitude made it clear that the call had made him disappointed and angry; and it took to her only one look at him to understand it had to do with her.

"What is it?" she asked, suddenly worried, "Something wrong at home?"

Clarkson superbly ignored her turned to his sister, his voice a blade of ice, "I'm goin' to the pub. Dinna want to stay thaur."

* * *

_**- I'm not entirely satisfied by this, but I'm quite proud of the oncoming one. So stay tuned, be kind, leave me a review and see you soon! -**_


	9. Chapter 9

**- So, finally, we have the confrontation between the two of them. This was the _hardest thing ever_ to write. Goodness. -**

* * *

Thinking about her morning conversation with Gretchen, Isobel admitted she had actually avoided Clarkson as much as he had tried to avoid her, both managing it quite perfectly. She had to admit she had saw him rarely, not even at lunch or dinner, he had got used to eat at the pub when she was there. Their little trip to the market was just a pleasant interlude, nothing more not less, and after the phone call he had received he simply disappeared, again. That phone call had changed everything, destroying what they had difficulty build together, and she knew it, she knew it must be about her.

In those days early in the morning, she thought climbing the wooden stairs and heading to the room for the night, she usually heard him saluting his sister and then leaving for his daily examinations, here and there in the neighborhood; helping the local doctor in his rounds.

Sometimes, when she was reading in the evening in her room, in _his room_, she heard him come back and surprised his grandnephews with small gift, their delighted squeals music to her ears; she would never tell him, of course, but she craved for him to play with her grandson back at Crawley House. She wished desperately for her grandson to have not only a grandmother, but also a grandfather, a thought that scared her with its profundity and its implications.

With a deep sigh, playing absently with her braid resting on her nightgown, Isobel opened the door and entered the room, sure that she would not sleep for the next few hours, too many were the thoughts that crowded her mind.

She stopped abruptly, her hand still on the door-handle.

"Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't notice you were here..."

"Of course you didn't, Mrs. Crawley," Clarkson replied, sarcastically, "Truly, what should a man do in his room when it's occupied by an unfamiliar woman? Maybe collecting some of his clothes so he can change himself in the morning after? Or collecting a fresh pajamas?"

"Doctor…" she got close to him , but he simply turned from her, collecting his clothes, "Richard..."

"See you tomorrow, Mrs. Crawley."

Before he can cross the room and exit on the balcony, she took some quick steps in his direction, grabbed him by the arm and looked up at him, pretending a boldness she knew she didn't have.

"We need to talk."

He snorted, freeing himself from her grasp and going back to the armchair to take something else, "About what, if you please?"

"Maybe..." she stammered a little, nervous, but she knew it was now or never, so she set up her for the all-but-comfortable conversation they had ahead, "About why I am here, for example."

"I perfectly know why you are here, thank you," he answered, going on folding the clothes he needed.

"You do?" she asked, surprised.

"You really think I'm that idiot?" he spat out, angrily, turning to her and fixing her with a cold glare, "You really don't think I will not find out what you and the Dowager are up to?"

"What - "

"He called me, you know? That young new doctor Millar of yours," he dropped some clothes on the commode and came to her, pointing at her with his finger, "He called me, it was his the call this morning. So I phoned him back, and he told me he knew I was about to return, to not worry about that, because he was ready to leave as soon as I came back."

Isobel widened her eyes at his words, his own face dangerously close to hers as he went on, "He told me about the Dowager, about how she was so sure about the fact that Mrs. Crawley would certainly be able to convince me to come back to Downton."

"No, wait - "

"In those days I let myself think, and hope, you were actually here for me, because you missed me. They way you acted, your sad smiles, everything made me think you wanted me back," he allowed himself to smile, a little sad smile, without looking at her, "Then your new doctor called to tell me the Dowager wants her doctor back. Doesn't she like the young one?"

"It's me who doesn't like him! It's me who wants you back! Not her! Me!"

He ignored her, "So yes, I know what are you doing here, you little herald of the Dowager. And tell me, my dear Isobel," he was cold again, and for the first time, her name on his lips sounded like an insult, "How were you supposed to convince me to leave my sister and her children, and come back home?"

Close to tears, she barely managed to hold his gaze, repeating her words, "I came here because I miss you, not because the Dowager told me so."

"Yes, of course," he snorted and went back to his armchair, starting collecting his clothes again, "Be kind to my intelligence, do not insult it with your lies. You've never been good at lying."

"But it's true!"

"Well, then!" again, he threw his things on the bed, "Well! You missed me! And what did you miss? That idiot man so desperately in love with you, the man who tried to help you through your grief You miss the man who spent his time at your side, trying to make you smile, even so slightly? Have you ever understood, or even thought about, how difficult it was for me to stand here? Waiting there and slowly dying inside because you didn't let me help you?"

"I was grieving, Richard!"

"Don't I know it? I'd spent all my free days in your company, as much as time as I can, even more than I can, sat in that sitting-room, drinking your tea, eating your cakes and biscuits, trying, oh, so desperately trying, to help you out! I sat there, day by day, waiting for a word, waiting for a smile, waiting for you to let me help you! I knew I wasn't be able to save your son, even if I tried so hard, I even asked for a miracle in my desperation, I asked God to take me and not him, to let him live with you, and, God forgave me, cursed him when your son died! I knew you blame me, and you're right!"

He went silent, taking a shaking breath before going on with the same force, the same anger, but hissing the words in a low tone, without letting her talk.

"But I hoped, silly me, that maybe, maybe, your grief would make you understand you weren't as strong as you thought, that maybe you would stop being that stubborn and proud woman I came to admire so much in all these years, and let someone help you. I hoped I would be the one able to help you, the man able to reach you in your grief and take you back to life; but no, I simply stood there, receiving your empty words, meeting your empty gazes, the same very words and gazes you reserved to your cousins and to everybody you didn't want to meet. I know you. I understand you."

"Richard, Gretchen told me -"

"My sister likes to think that she knows exactly what's going on between the two of us, or what I think. It's not like that."

"But I need -"

He took a step back, trying to regain control of his voice, as it cracked on the last sentences, then went on quieter, "I was useless at your home. I was useless at your side, to you, you didn't want my help. So I did the only thing sensible."

"You left me," she murmured desperate, looking for a spark of regret on his face, finding none, "You - "

"You didn't want me there."

She raised her hand to his face, but he turned away from her, so she simply let it fall at her side, never stopping looking at him, "I've never wanted someone at my side like I wanted, and needed, you now."

"I don't believe you."

"I came up to Scotland alone to find you!" she exclaimed in disbelief, raising her hand to the ceiling, "To ask you to come back to me, to ask you to be with me! And I almost die when I saw Gretchen at your door! I almost die when I saw you with your grandnephew in your arms, when I imagined you with my grandson in your arms! I left everything I have to try to win you back in my life!"

In front of his anew cold expression, of his obstinate silence, Isobel suddenly snapped, hurt, "Don't you dare to tell me I'm here because the Dowager wanted me so, don't you dare to tell me I didn't miss you!" she looked up at him within tears of anger, "You said you wanted to help, you said you loved me, now it doesn't seem you love me!"

"I've loved you for ten years!" he shouted back, "Ten years I've been at your side, supporting you and helping you when you let me, almost never! I worried myself to death when you were away, I prayed for your son when he was paralyzed, and I thanked God when he started walk again! And I wanted so badly to hold you when young Ms. Swire died, or to dance with you after Matthew's wedding to Lady Mary, but you were always so damn proud and distant, always so bloody self-confident! Then you left for Ripon and I was alone again, and I craved for seeing you even if only just for some minutes!"

Again he shut up for some interminable seconds, as to collect his thoughts, finally speaking them out aloud, his voice a crescendo of frustration, "But finally you came back, and we spent a spring and a summer working back together, and I thought, how idiot of me, that maybe I would be able to tell you how I felt about you, about us. About how many beautiful things I thought we could do together, just the two of us, without your son, without your family, without our work, far from the hospital. But we were friends, weren't we, Isobel? You liked your life and didn't want to change things by spoiling it, didn't you?"

"You… you didn't… you never - "

"I asked you to marry me!"

"You were drunk, for Goodness sake!" she exclaimed, exasperated, "You told me -"

"I wasn't drunk! I've just said that to you because you seemed so bloody indifferent to that and I preferred defend what remained of my honor!"

He ignored her suddenly surprised and shocked, almost horrified face, and went on, angrily, "So, please, Mrs. Isobel Crawley, the almighty Chairman of the Board, the protector of the poor," again, his voice was almost cruel, and his every word was like a stab in her already aching heart, "Don't you dare tell me I do not care or love you, because it's not. You've been the most important thing in all my life. Too badly, you didn't seem to notice it."

He retrieved his pack of clothes without looking at her, his breath short and his eyed rimmed with red. As he was making his way to the door, about to leave her alone with her thoughts, she took him forcefully by the arm and drew him towards herself. She cannot be alone, she was afraid of being alone, of losing him forever, as if his exit from that room meant he would never be back to her, something quite possible, considered his words.

Meeting his cold blue eyes, so cold and inexpressive they didn't look like his usually warm and sparkling ones, she simply stared at him, her first tears finally rolling down her reddened cheeks.

"Please," she finally managed to whisper, "Please. Not again. Don't leave me. Not again."

He shifted under her hand, but she didn't release her grip, his expression as distant and immobile as it had been in the last days.

"I need you. Richard, I beg you, don't - "

He kissed her. He kissed her, taking her face in his hands, angrily claiming her mouth, sucking forcefully her lower lip; demanding and claiming access to her mouth before she could even think about refusing it to him, his tongue slipping between her lips to meet hers, kissing her thoroughly. His tongue caressed her mouth, and there was still some tenderness in his action, no matter how fervently and hungrily he was kissing her, there was still that inner respect and awe he felt for her in his teeth biting her lower lip.

Then he withdrew brusquely, his hands holding her forearms, watching her doubtful, as he regretted what he had done, as he was unsure about how she was going to react. He was unsure, but she was not, not anymore.

Isobel kissed him back, all her caution thrown to the wind, the frustration of that week, the fact they had barely talked to each another, the fact she always seemed to be able to spoil the few peaceful moments between them, coming to the surface; making her acting with all the love she felt for him. Her hands busied themselves in the short hair at the nape of his neck, and she moaned softly against his mouth, trying to make him understand that it was alright, that they were and would be alright together like that.

Then she got lost in the feelings, in the movement of one of his hands down her arm to her hip, to held her to him, the other hand on her neck, cradling her head almost softly, and lost every conscious thought. She barely registered in her mind the fact they had reached his bed, the wood of its structure pushing on her calfs. He was kissing her, fiercely, passionately, as she was the only thing in the world, and she had never felt more loved and desired in all her life. His hand slid around her waist, the other further in her hair, and she realised she was quite trapped in his embrace; not that she minded moving away soon from the warm cocoon of his arm.

"Isobel?"

He withdrew suddenly at his sister's voice, almost pushing her away, and scrambled backwards looking at her with a strange look in his now stormy eyes; he looked hurt, angry, as if he was regretting what has just happened between them.

"Isobel, I wis thinkin' 'bout that, maybe - oh, Gawd."

The door opened, showing a surprised Gretchen, her hand still on the door-handle, and he stormed out muttering angrily under his breath, pushing away his sister; leaving her without an explanation, without a glance.

So Isobel just stood there, where he had kissed her, watching the wooden floor and crying quietly, covering her face with trembling hands, ashamed. Distant, she heard Gretchen run after her brother and call out loudly for him, but it left her totally indifferent; he wasn't about to come back to her, no matter what Gretchen would tell him.

His words had left her appalled and wound, not so much for the sarcasm or the nastiness with which he had spoken, surely dictated by anger, but by the awareness that she had made him suffer. What used to be only a suspicion, the suspicion he had gone because of her cold behaviour towards him, the suspicion which had dragged her up in Scotland, was now a confirmation, and it made her suffer enormously.

Drawing a long breath, trying to rearrange her braid and her hair where his hands had wounded themselves, Isobel came to a bitter fact: she did not deserve such a wonderful man. And she really shouldn't be there.

"I'm sairy, Isobel," Gretchen came back sighing deeply, "I'm so, so sairy, I didna mean - Isobel, whit are ye doin'?"

"Preparing my luggages, of course," she answered with her best calm voice, as she was talking about the weather with the Dowager Countess, throwing some clothes in one of her trucks, slapdashly, wandering distractedly around the room, collecting her things.

"Whit?"

"I can not stay here. I'm a nuisance and I'm bothering you and you're family. I shouldn't have come in the first place," some more dresses joined the others in the trunk, carelessly folded, "I've only created problem between you and -"

"Isobel," Gretchen grabbed her by the arm, stopping her rambling words, "Isobel, please -"

"I can't stay here, don't you see?", her voice, as well as her suddenly teary eyes, struck Gretchen dumb, and she just let her arm go, looking helplessly at the older woman, "He keeps my photo on his bedside table, I do not even know where he has found a picture of me, but I've seen it, it's there, and I've done nothing but hurt him," Isobel took some steps backwards, moving away from Gretchen, "I'm leaving, Gretchen."

"Ye arena."

* * *

**- I repeat myself, the HARDEST THING EVER. I'll say nothing more for now. -**


	10. Chapter 10

**- Thank you soooooo much for your amazing reviews _*personalised thanks at the end of the chapter*_ Then… you know, I think we all always consider Richard as the nice and patient man who will wait for Isobel forever. But I would really like to see him snap at her, _properly_ snap at her, in the next series, so maybe she will fully understand what's going on between them - that's why I wrote that scene, made Richard get angry, etc. I've just supplied to something Fellowes hadn't wrote (_yet_ - Hope is the last to die!). -**

**- I hope I have not and will not disappoint your expectations! -**

_**A/N: next chapter will be probably delayed a little. Tomorrow I'm leaving for Austria, and I'm posting this now quite in a hurry (luggages to prepare, ugh). So think of me, in the back seat of the car, writing the next chapters in my mobile phone mails! ;)**_

* * *

She sighed, taking off her hat and discarding it on the small table at the entrance of Crawley House, her trucks forgotten outside, Molesley fidgeting with them quite anxiously.

Absently, she headed to her sitting-room, her thoughts numb, her coat left on the back of the small settee, as well as her black purse, as she sat heavily on the cushions, thinking about the afternoon she had ahead.

First, going up to the Abbey and let them know she was back. And probably meet the Dowager Countess and tell her Doctor Clarkson wasn't going to come back - all the while, trying to ignore why he wasn't come back, or how the Dowager had managed to mess things up between them, again.

Second, going to the hospital to inform young and hopeful Doctor Millar he was supposed to stay with them forever, that he should leave the inn and go to live in the hospital cottage, since Doctor Clarkson seemed to have no intentions to come back in the near future, nor in the far future - trying to ignore the constant pang of pain in her chest at the idea of not working with him, not talking nor arguing with him, not seeing the man she loved for the rest of her life.

Third, returning to Crawley House in order to unpack her trucks and to reorganise her life in a stable routine. Wake up, go to the hospital, work, go the Abbey, meet baby George, go back to work, return home, eat, sleep. Maybe do something in Ripon, or maybe in York.

She had never complained about her life, about her quite routine, because, in a way or another, he had always been at here side, stimulating her to give the better of herself; she hoped she had done the same for him, but she wasn't sure anymore.

"Would you like something to eat for lunch, Ma'am?"

Molesley's worried voice entered her thoughts, penetrating in the veil of sadness, "Yes, thank you, Molesley."

"What about a soup, I could fetch a nurse at the hospital, and -"

"A sandwich would be fine," she cut him shortly, waving a hand at him, her eyes fixed on the cold fireplace, "Thank you, Molesley."

She hear her faithful butler leaving and felt quite sorry for him. Molesley had taken care of her during the long days after Matthew's death, making sure she ate properly, calling a young nurse from the hospital to cook the meals - since Isobel had not took a relief after Ethel's departure, occasionally cooking lunch and dinner himself.

"Molesley -", quickly, she turned to him to apologise, but he was gone, the squeak of the kitchen door betraying him.

Isobel sighed, again. Handling badly people who cared for her seemed to be extremely easy in the last time.

Feeling empty, numb, almost asleep, she stood up and headed to her room; if she was about to going to the Abbey before evening, she should change her traveling dress for something more elegant, the last thing she wanted right now was the Dowager complaining about anything about her.

Carefully taking out the pins from her hair, Isobel thought again about her day; the home-coming trip from Scotland had been something quite horrible, so much worse than the first one, and she had felt like she was torn in two pieces, part of her in the small compartment of the train, part of her with him, in Scotland, not willing to leave. Needless to say, her happy part was with him in Edinburgh, and in the empty compartment sat the sad and miserable Isobel.

She remembered with plain and painful clarity her departure from Edinburg, unwilling to leave, unable to stay. The silent plea Gretchen had given her, the same plea she would had heartily answered, but couldn't. So she had simply, as simply it could be, saluted the younger woman and left, crying quietly all the while; not pretending she was alright, since she was feeling wretched.

Not that coming back to her cold and empty house had been a joyful affair, she mused, carefully folding her dress, putting it aside and taking a clean one from the wardrobe, losing herself for some moments in the blackness of her dresses.

Molesley had reached her casually, having spotted her near the train station, and had insisted to accompany her back home; now she was glad for it, glad to have her butler to take care of her empty and absent person, while her mind was occupied by sadness and regret. Glad to have someone who cooked for her, while she thought about all she had done wrong in the previous week.

* * *

"So, how was your trip to Scotland? Successful?"

Isobel slowly lifted her eyes for her cup of tea, unable to feel the hotness of the porcelain on her palms, and looked at the woman in front of her; how on Earth the Dowager Countess had got to know Isobel was back home before she could even leave Crawley House and go up to the Abbey, was a mystery. But she suspected it had to do with dear Molesley.

So there she sat, in the Dowager's sitting-room, absently holding in her hands her cup of tea, taking all the time she needed before answering the sibylline question of the older woman. Of course she could answer her politely that Scotland was a lovely place and Edinburgh a nice city, lying about both the statements since she had visited nothing in her week there; but then the Dowager would insisted on the matter, and forced her to tell her what she wanted to say. It was futile to get around the question.

"He's not coming back to Downton," Isobel answered, sitting upright on her chair, stiffening in her position, and throwing a glance to the Dowager, "We're not going to have our doctor back, I'm afraid."

"So you have met him, haven't you?"

The fake, but well simulated, surprise of the Dowager annoyed her as always, and Isobel gently rolled her eyes, "Of course."

"Well, yes, it was quite obvious you would do that."

The Dowager eyed her before sipping slowly her tea, and for some blissful seconds Isobel hoped she was about to drop the subject. Then, quite suddenly, the clear, light blue eyes of the Dowager were back on her face, penetrating as always.

"Why is he not coming back?"

Inwardly, Isobel groaned; but, at least, she had a true justification ready, "He wants to stay with his family. Who are we to impede him so?"

The Dowager's eyes widened a little in surprise, "What? His what? Is he mar -"

"His _family_," Isobel replied quietly, glad to see on the Dowager's face the same expression she must had worn when she first saw Gretchen at his door, "His sister and her grandchildren. Doctor Clarkson wants to stay with them, and I don't see what we can offer him there to make him prefer Downton to his hometown and family."

Again, the pang of pain in her chest was almost unbearable, and she had to quickly lowered her eyes, too quickly, and she know the Dowager had noticed her sudden discomfort too.

"I see," the older woman said, carefully measuring his words, "He's happier there. More satisfied."

"There he has his family and his work as doctor," Isobel turned her little spoon in her now forgotten and cold tea, aware of the Dowager's stare on her, "Here he just has his work. No friends, no family, just nurses and patients," she took a long, quite shuddering breath, and cursed herself silently; she felt the tears in her eyes and knew her voice was quivering, but couldn't help herself, "If I was him, I would have stayed in Edinburgh too."

"I see," the Dowager replied, putting aside her empty porcelain tea cup.

Mirroring her gestures, Isobel laid her untouched cup on the round table between them and absently caressed the Dowager's tabby kitten, purring against her legs.

Looking at the little and playful animal, she missed the quick flick of the Dowager Countess' eyes as well as the regretful glance in them. But, when she finally spoke, her voice was back to its usually brisk tone, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Crawley."

Isobel lifted her head from the kitten, offering the other woman a tiny, sad smile, "I am too."

* * *

Sitting in her sitting-room that evening, absently sipping a cold, bittersweet tea, Isobel mused about the fact that almost everything had began there. In that room she had decided to go up to Scotland to find him, in that room she was now drinking tea and facing her failure, watching the rain drumming restlessly the glass of the window; she had forgotten to close the shutters, but she didn't care, she just stared at the rain and at the heavy darkness in her rear garden. It was all quite ironic.

The day had been long and tiring, the meeting with the family up at the Abbey even more weary; luckily the Dowager was not there with them so she had not to confront her again on her trip to Scotland. Robert had been very polite to her, and Cora too, both of them happy to see her in good health - even if she was sure it had been only a phrase of circumstances, since she surely was not displaying a cheerful and relaxed expression. Mary too had been unusually kind and gentle, and baby George had lit up a small flame of happiness in her chest, instilling in her a little bit of joy and bringing a smile on her lips.

Now, thinking again about it, she recollected that memory, trying to feel happy again. Then, enjoying for the first time the heavy silence in her empty house - Molesley being at his home with his father, Isobel put aside her cup of tea and sat on the settee, sliding on the soft cushions until she was almost lying on them, her brown eyes never leaving the fireplace, where a happy fire was burning every piece of wood in her fireplace.

Her fire was so alive, _seemed_ so alive, while she was feeling utterly sad and hollow. She had died inside three time in her life: firstly, when her husband suddenly died a lot of time before, leaving her a young widow with a baby.  
Then, secondly, when Matthew died too, so suddenly, _so absurdly_ she still hadn't fully accepted it.  
Thirdly, and so painful it risked to choke her with quite, tearless sobs, when Richard had left her alone in his room the night before. Now it seemed a whole other life, a whole other world, a whole other time, and it was difficult to accept that the night before she had been in the arms of the best man in the world, feeling his hands holding her firmly to him, his lips on hers in a searing kiss, while now she was alone in her house.

It looked like another life now, as it was like a dream, like something happened to another woman, another Isobel, a fairytale.

* * *

When she heard the knocks at her door for the first time, she simply ignored them, keeping looking into the roaming flame in the fireplace as she had done in the last hour, half asleep slumped against the soft, light cushions.

At the second round of unanswered knocks she remembered Molesley was not there to open the door and answer her visitor, gently dismissing him, and inwardly groaned, brushing a tired hand on her eyes, sinking her face in the fabric of the settee, as if the simple gesture would send away her unwanted guest.

The third wave of knocks made her finally understand that the light of the fire from the sitting-room window would betray her presence in that very room, so that her late visitor would not leave her alone.

Muttering under her breath, she lowered herself on her feet and headed to the door, firmly enveloping her shaking with cold body in her nightgown, her long braid jumping slightly on her back as she walked.

It would probably be a nurse from the hospital for an emergency, she mused absently, looking for the keys on the small table. Or maybe Molesley, to check if she was alright - but it was so late, even for him and for his kindness. She just hoped it wasn't bad news from the big house, about George, or Mary... or any of them. She liked them, she had to admit it. They were her only family now.

Slowly, she unlocked the triple brass lock, only a small part of her brain remembering her it could be dangerous to open the door without asking for a name before, so long after dinner time. Then, tiredly, as if moving the heavy wood was taking away all of her already small forces, Isobel opened the door, grasping the handle as to sustain herself.

"What is it?"

Isobel looked in front of her, just to find her own eyes widening in surprise and disbelief. Her grip on the handle became compulsive, and her small knuckles turned white. She blinked in shock, slightly opening her mouth, but not a word left her lips.

Instead, he supplied for her.

"I was wrong."

* * *

**- Thank you SO MUCH for all your lovely reviews for the last chapter. I'm so glad you liked it, I'm really glad!**

**_ChelsieTea_: oooooooh, una recensione in italiano! Che meraviglia :D così pochi le _Downtonian_ italiane, immagina la mia gioia nel trovarne una addirittura Richobel… mi commuovo. Grazie per il commento, davvero molto gradito (e l'italiano va benissimo, not to worry about it!)!**

**_LavenderAndHay_, Captain of the Ship, thank you! Hope to keep in touch on tumblr ;) How are you?**

**_Lady Edith Strallan_: You're Scottish! SCOTTISH! You have now my undying admiration (and my envy too, I fear xD)! I have a Scottish reviewer, woooohoooooooo!**

**_Demilune_, sooooo, he talked with his sister, will he go back to Downton? We will see together ;)**

**_Spirit of the Time_, yep, sometimes Gretchen annoys me too. Bloody a lot, actually, and I've created her! But, you know, I thought that Richard needed someone meddling in his life (well, except Isobel, of course), who could convince him to act. So _ta-daaaaah!_ his sister ;)**

**_Batwings79_, the other Captain of the Ship, your comment was so long my email did not upload it completely xD thank you so much. I'm glad you like it, and such a review written by you, well… I admire your works so much, so that reviews really flatters me. Fanks!**

**_SarLei_, great, great, great, I'm happy you liked it. It was really really really difficult, so of course I'm satisfied it turn out right.**

**_Fancatt_: your comment, so simple yet so strong. It almost brought tears to my eyes, thank you so very much.**

**_Eugenia_: SO che sei là fuori da qualche parte. Hai sofferto abbastanza o devo aggiungere altri rounds (e uccidere anche me nel frattempo)? ;)**

**_All My Guests Reviewers_: I'd like to thank you all by your name but, since it's impossible, THANK YOU. You are so much I'm touched!**

**I haven't forget anyone, have I? Thanks!-**


	11. Chapter 11

**- I'm sorry for the little late - but Wien is such a lovely, lovely city, and going back to my Grandmother's family's homeland is always touching and fantastic, such a big emotion. My austrian blood was singing in pure bliss.  
I wrote this chapter (_and the next one, too_) while travelling back home. It's not very good, I'm afraid, but you see? I think about you all also during my holiday! -**

* * *

_Clarkson closed silently the big red gate behind him, and headed to the court. It was almost midday, but the silence in the house struck him with his immobile heaviness; then he remembered the children would probably be at school, but will be home soon for lunch, and relaxed. But there was still something wrong in the air, and he was sure of it._

_He realised what it was as soon as he entered the court and his eyes fell on the small figure of his sister, sitting near the kitchen door, embroidering. She was wearing one of her most elegant dress, a dark blue travel dress, and she was too silent; she didn't look up at him when the crunch of the gravel betray his presence, nor she gave a sign she had heard his approach, ignoring him completely. She was angry, or annoyed, probably both of them, her rigid posture confirming his suspicion._

_And she was alone. And irrational shiver of fear run down his spine and he quickly passed her, throwing open the door of the kitchen._

_"Isobel!"_

_He watched the empty room, then went to the sitting room, empty as well, then upstairs, storming past Gretchen and climbing hastily the stairs._

_"Isobel!"_

_He opened the door of her room - his room - without knocking; if she was inside - she must be there, where else she could be? - she would probably deny him to enter, if politely asked. So he simply bursted in the room, only to find it completely empty of her things. No trunks, no hats, no black coat laid neatly on the bed, no tiny bottles of perfume near the mirror of his dresser. The only remind of her in his room was her photo on his small bedside table._

_Another shiver made him shudder, and he slowly shook his head, as to refuse what he was seeing._

_"Whaur is she?"_

_If Gretchen was surprised by the fact her brother knew she had followed him upstair, she didn't show it, sitting carefully on the armchair near the door._

_"She left."_

_"Left?"_

_"She went back to Downton. Took the first train this forenuin. I accompanied her thaur, while ye war whaur? Whaur ye spend the nicht?" she threw him a glare, "At the pub, I suppose."_

_"Whaur I wis this nicht isnae a business of yers," he replied brusquely, trying to keep at bay the wave of delusion he was feeling. He wanted to talk to her, to apologise, but she had already left, left him. Like the night before, when she was the one who wanted to talk and he the one who tried to leave._

_Finally he turned to look at his sister, his face a mask of painful daze, "Ye shoud haed stopped her."_

_Confused and disappointed as he was, he missed the deadly flash in his sister's eyes, "I beg yer pardon?"_

_"Ye shoud haed stopped her," he repeated, quite aware of the panicked edge his voice had taken, "Ye shoud haed made her stay, ye shoud -"_

_"I? I shoud?" Gretchen stood up quickly and crossed the room to come to him, pointing at him, "I'm not yer intermediary atween ye and Isobel! I hae already done more than whit I shoud hae!"_

_"Yer my sister," he said, quite helplessly, "Ye -"_

_"I'm yer sister an' I hae spend a week tryin' to ease up things atween the twa of yese, I hae seen yese twa actin' like twa idiots an' -"_

_"Gretchen, please -"_

_"Dinna ye dare to 'Gretchen, please' me, Richard! I micht be a meddlin' woman, I agree, I micht hae acted as a couple maker, aye, but, fo' Goodness sake, I hae seen yese twa actin' like twa capricious children!"_

_"Ye dinna understand..."_

_"Whit is thaur to understand? Ye loue her, she loues ye, yet ye are haur in Edinburrie leukin' miserably, while she's headin' back to Downton! She wis cryin' this forenuin whan she left!"_

_"She wis whit?"_

_"Cryin', ye dumb idiot, she wis cryin'. She wis leavin' fo' guid the man she loues, of course she wis cryin'!"_

_"She doesna -"_

_"Dinna ye ever dare to say she doesna loue ye! She came up haur in Scotland 'lone to find ye, an' ye ken that! She wisna haur 'cause of that auld Dowager Countess of yers, and ye ken that too! She told me whit haed happened yesterday forenicht!"_

_She took a breath a stepped backwards, still glaring at him, "Canna ye imagine why she haes left?"_

_"No," he breathed out, "No. I canna. Ye say she loues me, yet she haed left. She... I dinna ken. I dinna understand. She left me."_

_"It isnae no more different from whit ye hae done to her some times ago, is it?"_

_"It is, I -"_

_"It isnae. Ye left her 'cause ye thought leavin' wad be better for her sake. She left this forenuin fo' the very same reason, fo' yer sake. Dinna ye see? Dinna ye understand?" he shook his head, watching intently the floor, "She left 'cause she haed realised she haed made ye suffer, an' she wis so sairy 'bout it. She said she didna deserve ye, that ye need to be happy, an' she canna be the guid woman fo' ye. She said she just wanted ye to be happy, ye wonderful an' generous man. I wad add huir uv a stupid man."_

_Clarkson let out a shaky breath, trying to keep his voice even, "It's me the ane that doesna deserve her."_

_"It isnae a matter of wha deserves wha, but I agree with ye, ye probably dinna deserve her, but it isnae even a matter of whit I think; it's that yese twa still haena explained yerself at all. She thinks she doesna deserves ye, but she wants ye happy; and ye -"_

_"Gretchen..."_

_"Yese twa maun stop to act as twa fools. Ye hae to explain Isobel why ye left her. Ye owe it to her."_

_He went silent for long instants, not looking at her, then, "I am afraid," he confessed, blurting out the words, "I am afraid she will reject me again. I coudna take it, Gretchen, not again."_

_"Reject ye? Isobel? After all she haes done to find ye? Oh, Richard..."_

_"What if -" he began, but she cut him off with a brisk sway of her hand._

_"Catch the next train. It's the last ane, after lunch, ye'll arrive in Downton this forenicht."_

_"I dinna ken."_

_"Wad ye rather stay haur and think forever 'bout whit wad hae been atween yese twa if ye haed go back to her?" she asked him, looking sadly at him, taking his hand in hers to reassure him, "Wad ye rather stay here and regret forever somethin' ye haena said to her?"_

_"Whit if she refuse me? Whit it she's so angry she winna even talk to me?"_

_"She wad hae all the reasons in the worl' to be mad at ye, but she wad probably cry of joy and relief as soon as she see ye again."_

_"I'm not so sure 'bout it," he let out a ill-humoured laugh, "Whan she got angry..."_

_"But she isnae angry. She's feelin' as guilty as ye."_

_He shook his head, confused and undecided, and she sensed the silent battle in him, almost felt his rational part and his sentimental one fighting in his mind, and feared the first could win, again._

_With a sigh, Gretchen took a step towards him and gently grabbed his forearms, resting her forehead against his._

_"I want to tell ye a story."_

_"Whit?"_

_She ignored him, her eyes closed, "I ken a man wha once told to the woman he loues thay wad sink or swim together. I hae kenn this man since the day I wis born, and I saw him suffer durin' the war 'cause he haedna tell her hou he felt an' desired afore she left, and I saw him regrettin' his silence awday."_

_Then she looked up at him, and Clarkson noticed her big, blue eyes, a mirror of his own, where moist with tears, "An' I loue this man, 'cause he haes always been at ma side, durin' the guid days and during the bad anes, helpin' me. I loue him 'cause he haes always wanted me to be happy, an' he haes always done whit he can to ensure the happiness of ma children and mines."_

_As soon as she took a long shuddering breath, Clarkson felt his eyes too welling up with tears, "Nau I want that man to be happy. He haes given all his life to the ithers, 'cause he's a guid doctur, and he loues his job. But, ye ken, thaur is this woman, and he loues her, and she loues him, and I want them to be happy together, 'cause thay deserved it. Thay hae already suffered too much 'cause of thair stubbornness, thay deserve it. An' I like her so much, an' I ken she wad make him happy."_

_Another small pause and Clarkson use that occasion to drew his sister in a big hug, resting his forehead on her slim shoulder, trembling slightly with silence sobs, "Thank ye, sister."_

_"Ye dumb fool, ma wonderful silly brither," Gretchen sniffed and patted his back gently, "Catch that train. Go back to yer lass."_

* * *

She stood still, struck dead in her place, petrified as a salt statue, and looked at him in disbelief, taking in the details. His heavy breath, the slightly wild look in his blue eyes, his slumped frame on her front steps, his very presence there, when, until some seconds before, she had thought to have lost him forever and for good.

"I was wrong," he repeated, leaning heavily on her doorframe, gripping the wood, panting heavily as he had run, his cheeks reddened by fatigue, his head dropped between his shoulders, "Isobel, please, don't close the door."

She blinked in misunderstanding, then withdrew from her door quickly, as it was burning under her fingers; certainly, hide as she was behind it, he could think she was about to slam it on his face, probably fear it.

"Please," he repeated, lifting his head to look at her, "Isobel, I just want to talk and -"

She shook her head as to shook herself from the surprise, she knew she had to say something to him, and not stayed here, looked at him startled, "Richard, you're dropping wet!"

He blinked and lowered his eyes, following hers down his body; indeed he was soaked, water running down his light coat and edging the trim of is hat. Heavy drops hanged on the fabric of his clothes, some of them falling in front of his eyes, blurring her silhouette. He smiled at her, slightly amused, struck by the absurdity of the context, "Well, yes it's raining."

"Oh. I see. Yes. You're right."

They stood still for some eternal seconds, Isobel looking at him as he was a dream, an illusion, a joke of her brain. She felt her cheeks blushing and she lowered a little her eyes, feeling embarrassed without a reason; surely it wasn't the first time he had seen her in her nightdress and dressing gown, and maybe it was the memory of that previous encounter that made her feel so shy in his presence. Isobel's eyes darted to his, locking with them, and she saw he was quite embarrassed too, probably remembering the same very episode.

Then he drew a long breath, straightened himself a little and started to speak, his voice a quick rambling of words.

"I was wrong Isobel, and I'm sorry, I was so terribly, horribly wrong, and -"

She slowly lifted her hand, the other firmly grasping her dressing gown on her chest, and caressed his cheek, interrupting his babbling, "We were both wrong, weren't we?" she smiled, a little bit sadly, "Me, in the first place."

Richard looked at her in disbelief, "No, no, I don't... I want to apologise, I-"

Isobel gently shook her head and, mirroring his actions in Scotland, she took a step forward and kissed him squarely on the lips, taking his face in her hands, holding him to her tenderly.

When they broke off, he looked at her surprised by her sudden boldness, his lips barely touching her nose, "Anyone could see us, out here..."

Isobel lifted her eyes, her small hands clutching at his damp shirt, "I don't care. You are here, and I don't care about what the others think."

"Good," he smiled, "Because I don't care too. But you will catch the death of you, standing here only in your nightgown; it's cold, and it's raining, and -"

"Richard, are you trying to sneak into my house?"

"I'm trying to find some time to spend with you. I want to talk to you. I need it, I need you, right now. So yes," he smiled smartly at her, enjoying the new intimacy of their relationship, "In a way I'm try to sneak in."

She chuckled a little, nodding, and one of her hands slide down his chest to reach his larger one and squeeze it. She went back inside, tugging and pulling him gently, and, as soon as the door was closed behind them, she felt herself pressed again against his chest, his arm encircling her waist, the other hand tangled in her hair, and he was kissing her thoroughly, as he was resuming their interrupted kiss of the day before. She was so happy to feel his lips on hers as well as his arms around her again, that she felt tears pinching at her eyes, and she snuggled closer to him, surrendering gratefully at his ministrations to her.

"I took it you wanted to talk with me," she joked when he withdrew slightly from her, still holding her, "Not to kiss me senseless."

"I'd love to spend the night talking and holding you, my dear," he answered, caressing her jaw with his fingers, gently lifting her chin, and smiled when she suppressed a yawn, blinking sleepy, "But you're tired, and you should sleep. I imagine the trip was quite tiring, so I'll leave you now and come back tomorrow mor -"

"Stay with me?" Isobel interrupted him, talking quietly, her head on his chest, "Don't go. Stay with me. Be with me tomorrow morning."

"Are you sure? I don't -"

"I'm sure. I'm inviting you to stay, am I not?" she locked the door and put aside the keys, never letting go of his hand, "You can have on of Matthew's pyjamas and…" she blinked quickly, feeling something heavy suddenly pressing on her chest, air leaving her lungs; she raised a hand to her chest, trying to breathe, "And... and..."

The sob escaped her lips abruptly, shaking her chest with force, and she bent forwards, clinging at his hand desperately.

"Isobel," his arms encircled her trembling figure, hugging her tenderly, "My darling…"

"My son…" there was something new in truly talking about Matthew with him, just with him, something different from when she spoke about her boy with Mary or the Family. Something particular, something _definitive_. So definitive it broke her heart, so definitive it made her finally crumble in front of him for the first time.

"Richard..." another choke strangled her voice in her throat, and she clutched at him in despair, "My baby boy…"

"It's all right, Isobel, I'm here," he kissed her hair, fervently, hoping to convey some of his love for her in his tender gesture, "All right. I'm here, you can cry, I'm not going to leave you alone, not this time."

* * *

**- So yes, he's back. Is he back for good? And how will things develop between the two of them? And what about the Crawleys? Stay tuned, my friends!**

**_Fancatt_, my portuguese friend, I took note of your idea. I can not promise to develop it soon (exams, poor health, etc), but who knows! _Demilune_, you're french? Lovely, you're a "cousin across the Alps" then! _And Spirit of the Time_, thank you so so so much. _Black Widow Mistress_, thx, I actually had an amazing time! And dear _Guest_, thank you too.**

**I'm not completely satisfied with it, you know, t'was written quite in a hurry, but I wanted a last scene for Gretchen - ad Richard needed someone to shake him, didn't he? -**


	12. Chapter 12

**- For Batwings79, since her last story, _Kissing it better_, simply killed me *slowly dying in the feels* -**

* * *

She woke up quite suddenly, her long light hair falling around her sleepy face and on his chest, the ring of the phone downstairs penetrating her drowsy brain and hitting her hard, almost painfully.

Groaning, Isobel stretched herself over Richard's body, looked at the his pocket-clock on her bedside table, and muttered under her breath; it was barely half past nine in the morning, Molesley was not supposed to arrive until late afternoon and she very much intended to spend all the time possible in bed, between the warm sheets, in Richard's arms. But now it seemed she must get up, and suddenly the ringing became more and more insistent in her head.

Carefully dislodging her from his limbs, Isobel left the bed, took her gown from the armchair where she had left it the night before and quickly made her way to the door. She almost stumbled on his undershirt near the door, and asked herself, blushing slightly, how on earth she had managed to threw it there.

Cursing the cold downstair, barefoot and with just her dressing gown to cover her still warm body, she almost run down the stair and into the sitting-room, grabbing the phone hastily.

"Crawley House."

"_Please, tell me I'm talkin' with ma future sister-in-law_."

"Gretchen?" she asked, surprised by the now familiar Scottish voice and its accent, "What do you mean?"

"_Oh, ma Gawd_," she heard the woman gasping, almost saw her covering her mouth with a hand, "_He haesna asked ye yet, haes he?_"

"Ask me wha -"

"_Please, dinna tell him I hae spoiled his surprise fo' ye! Hae a guid day, Isobel!_"

Hearing the loud _click_ at the other side of the line, Isobel stood still staring at the black receiver in her hand, stupefied, her brain slowly processing Gretchen's words, her heart tightening a little in anticipation and joy, her stomach aching and remembering her she should not make up false hopes. But Gretchen had said something about her as her future sister-in-law, hadn't she?

With trembling hands, she hung up the receiver and then went back to her room, back to him, all the while trying not to think to the possible implications of the Scottish woman's words. Counting the steps of the stairs helped her not to think about what she had heard, but once in front of the door of her room Gretchen's words began again to resonate in her head, vehemently.

She closed as silently as possible the door, then, dropping carelessly her gown at the end of her bed, Isobel sat back on the soft mattress, at his side, slipping her bare legs again under the bedclothes; he had moved while she was downstairs answering the phone, and was now tangled in the sheets, his face pressed on her cushion. Her eyes swept over his naked shoulders, taking in all the small details, in the light freckles on his back and neck, in his light grey, now unruly short hair, and she affectionately caressed his brow and cheek, hoping not to wake him up; she wanted to looked at him a little bit more.

He had been so gentle with her the night before, she mused as she drew random signs with her fingers on his skin; he had waited for her sobs to subside, rocking her to and forth, wiped away her tears and carried her back to bed, holding her between the sheets until she fall asleep. Her last memory was of his lips in her hair, kissing her so tenderly it made her shed some more quiet tears.

She remembered waking up in the middle of the night and finding him looking closely at her, to make sure everything was alright, that she was as much fine as possible, considered her broken heart. She remembered asking for him without words, she remembered his hands soft on her curves, his tender kisses, his lips soothing where his teeth had bitten her so gently. He had waited for her then, making sure she was alright with it, respecting her body and the time it took to come back to life. She was grieving, and she was glad he had remembered it all the while, making love to her passionately yet carefully. Now, drawing casual patterns with her fingers on his body, she could only hope there will be other occasions in which they could be more passionate and less careful.

Absorbed as she was in her consideration about him and their previous lovemaking, she noticed him moving when it was too late: with a swift movement, he grabbed her by her waist, sunk her on the mattress and covered her lips with a long kiss. Then he withdrew and smiled quite triumphantly at her.

"Good morning, my love."

"You were awake!" she accused him, hitting him lightly on his bare chest, and freeing herself from under his chest, propping on her arms, "For how long have you been awake?"

"Since I've heard the phone ringing, when you left me," he embraced her, winning her fake resistance, and planted a kiss under her jawline, "How are you?"

"More than fine, thanks to you."

Richard smiled, "I'm glad," then, becoming serious, his arms tightening just a little around her, "Did I hurt you?"

"A little," she conceded, "Not to worry about it," she amended, kissing him lightly on the mouth.

"Then I'm twice glad."

Isobel thrown her head back and laughed, and Richard seized that opportunity to plant a loving kiss on her neck, before sinking back on the mattress. She looked down at him, still propped on her arms, and smiled.

"What were you doing? Pretending to sleep?"

"I was watching you watching me," he answered quietly, playing with a strand of her honey hair, "Satisfied with what you saw?"

"Quite a lot."

"I'm trice glad."

Again, Isobel laughed, but this time he simply smiled, looking at her. Then, when she finally stopped her giggle, Richard raised his hand to cup her face, his thumb gently stroking her cheekbone. Gently, he drew her again in his arms, holding her to his chest, her head tucked under his chin resting on his shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, caressing gently her bare back.

"About what?"

"Matthew."

She sighed, snuggling closer to his side. Of course she wanted to talk about her son, she desperately needed to, but she also knew she own him an explanation, an apology, for her behaviour, "I'm sorry, Richard."

He looked down at her, puzzled, his brow furrowed, "What for?"

"I've been very... rude, as to say, with you. You wanted to help be, and I... well, I didn't behave in the kindest way ever. Ignoring you, treating you like a stranger... you weren't, you aren't, a stranger to me, you are... you are..." _you're everything_, she wanted to say, _everything I need and everything I want_, but the words died in her throat, suffocated by a sob.

"You were grieving," he remind her, planting a kiss in her hair, recalling her earlier words in Scotland, and embraced her, "I should have been more patient."

"I should have understood your concern, not sending you away..." she brushed her hand tiredly across her eyes, wiping away few tears, "It took my son's death to make me understand I love you."

Richard stayed silent, gently stroking hair hair and her back, trying to soothe her distress. Somehow he knew that was the main point of all, the fact that losing her only child had made understand she need him at her side, that she loved him.

"It's unfair, Richard."

"It's more than unfair, my love, and there's no word to explain it; no way to accept it; he died just after became father and -"

"It's unfair to _me_," she cut him almost angrily, her words hard and her voice sharp, "When his father died, I had my baby-boy; I had him and I had to take care of him, and he was the most important part of my life. Now I'm al-"

"You're not alone, you have me know," he said, hopefully, blinking quickly when her head snapped up, "I mean... I'm here, if you need me. If you want me here."

"Of course I want you here! I thought we had silently agreed on it yesterday night," she smiled, but he was serious, so serious it almost made her worried.

"You know I won't let you down, not again. And, Isobel..." he gently took her hand again, kissing it softly, and sighed, "About disappointing you... I wish I was more useful, I wish I was able to... save your son. I'm so sorry…"

"It wasn't your fault, Richard," again, she sat at his side, the sheet forgotten around her hips, looking him straightly into his eyes, "You know it wasn't. I know it."

"Still… I wish -"

"I wish a lot of thing, my dear, desperately wish my child was still alive, but I don't blame you. I could never blame you," Isobel lifted her free hand and gently caressed his cheek, "You said you weren't able to help him, but you're helping me now. You couldn't do anything for him, but you could do everything for me. And I can not ask for more."

"You wonderful woman," he replied with a soft, small kiss, and caressed her face, cradling her head in his hand, "I love you."

She leaned into his touch, bending on him to press lightly her lips on his. She loved it, she thought, the feeling of being safe at his side. The strength of his love for her, almost a warmth emanated from his body to wrap and protect her. She loved it, and she loved him.

"Who was at the phone?" he asked absently when she finally withdrew from their gentle kiss, his head now in her lap, buried among the light sheets, humming gently under his breath.

Isobel faltered a little, "Your sister."

"Gretchen?" even without seeing his face, she knew his expression was one of surprise and amusement, "What did she want?"

"She..." she hesitated again - debating about being completely honest and risk to spoil that beautiful moment between them telling him everything right now and asking for an explanation, or just not, not yet; her hand stopped its gentle caresses through his hair. Slowly he shifted himself to properly watched her.

"Isobel?"

"She wanted to talk to her... to who she hope was going to be her future sister-in-law."

For some interminable, silent second, Richard just looked at her, his expression still and unreadable, his long arm forgotten around her hips.

Then he sighed heavily and muttered something, leaving her lap and sitting on the bed, his back to her. For some horrible moments, she thought he was about to leave her, she feared it so much she felt her heart aching in fear.

"Richard?"

He stretched himself out of the bed, reaching for something on the floor among his discarded clothes, and when he finally turned back to her, after what seemed ages, cold ages, to her, there was something small in his hand.

Without a word, without even looking at her, Richard pressed the little something in her hand, grasping her thin fingers to make them close around it, then released her hand, watching it intently.

Slowly, as she was in a dream, perplexed by his action and his silence - luckily a very different silence from the one he had kept while she was in Scotland, Isobel turned her hand and gasped in surprise and shock. On her palm, blue and small and pretty, a velvet box was waiting to be opened by her.

And she did it, with trembling fingers, very carefully, trying not to hope desperately about its content. And she chocked back a touched sob when she finally lift the velvety-smooth lid up, tears dangerously prickling in her eyes.

"Do you know what is it?" he asked in a soft voice, barely above a whisper. To his surprise, she nodded.

"It's your mother's ring."

"Christ!" he exclaimed, half-jokingly, half-angrily, "Did Gretchen tell you about it too? She's really good in spoiling my surprises for you!"

"But..." Isobel's index finger gently caressed the elaborate ring, her voice distant and sweet, ignoring his mock protest, "It belongs to Gretchen..."

"No," carefully, Richard took the ring from the box, set aside the small case on the bedclothes and took her hand in his, "This ring belong to the head-of-the-family's wife."

"But your brother -"

"Harold left for India long before getting married to Renée. He left this ring at home, and Mother was still alive. He never asked for it, not even after Mother's death or just before marrying his wife. So the ring stayed in Scotland, at Gretchen's finger sometimes, waiting. It was quite a long wait indeed."

"Richard..."

"It waited for me and for my wife," he didn't look at her, his eyes sweeping instead from her hand to the ring between his fingers, and back again. He gently squeezed her fingers, raising them to his lips, kissing them lovingly.

"Isobel, I know... I didn't ask you properly at Thirsk. I know I didn't tell you I loved you then, love you now and love you forever, but -"

She smiled a little, "You're doing it now."

He dared a glance up to her eyes, but she had lowered them on their hands too, "Yes, I'm doing it now. And I also know that I have to explain my behaviour to you, to apologise for it, and I'm so sorry, but... I'm not very good in displaying my feeling, Isobel, but I love you. So very much. And I can not live without you. I tried it in Scotland, I can not. Not even for a month, for a week."

He gently cleared his throat, still watching her fingers now gently caressing his ones; quickly he looked at her downwards face, and the small smile on her lips give him the courage he needed.

"Not even now it's the proper way to asking it, among the bedsheets, but my darling, will you -"

"Yes."

"- marry me?"

He blinked, taken aback by her answer. Of course, deep in his heart he hoped she would answer yes, but her conviction, her force, something in her beautiful smile or in her watery eyes made his heart do a somersault of joy in his chest.

"Well, then," he replied, sounding almost stupidly, "Very very well."

He took her again in his arms, gently lowering her on the bed and showering with light kisses her neck and jaw. He felt light, he reflected, light and happy, almost hilarious. He let out a small, happy laugh, before catching her mouth with his, his hands tangled in her long, soft hair, her small ones clutched at his back and shoulder. Without encountering any resistance by her side, he took her hand and gently slid the ring on her ring-finger, all the while without leaving her soft lips.

"I was so stupid, Richard," she murmured after their kiss ended, propping herself on her forearms, her breasts squeezing comfortably on his chest, his lips kissing her hand and her new ring, "I shouldn't have turn you down."

"I shouldn't have left you."

"But you were right to go away. I didn't -"

"The I'm glad you followed me up there, and bring me back to my senses," he interrupted her, gently caressing her face, "None had ever run after me before you, my beautiful one."

Isobel smiled down at him at his joke, lying again next to his body and in his arms, facing him, kissing him lightly.

"I'm glad you're back to me."

* * *

**- So I'm really liking this thing of personalised answer. Like it very much indeed.**

**_Black Widow Mistress_, again, I'm glad you like the previous chapter. And I hope this played out well as you hoped!**

**_Demilune_, me writing Downton Abbey? You're really too good to me, my friend (but I like the idea!), and Richard and Isobel will be together in DA, or I'll personally hurt Fellowes :D And, oh, I like France so much, I've visited it a lot of times, and, let me tell you this, I really LOVE Normandie!**

**My dear _Guest_, I have some problems in writing Scottish since I'm Italian, so I can understand you :D but I'm glad you like Gretchen's scene. I think she'll have another scene, maybe in a chapter or two. And the squeal about the "sink and swim"… well, I squealed too writing it!**

**_SarLei_, the Richard-Gretchen relationship is a) what I'd like to have with an hypothetic sibling since I'm an only-child, and b) something that in DA is missing. Why, Goodness, can't we have such a close relationship between siblings?**

**_Lavender&Hay_, I'm really happy you're liking and enjoying it, I can only hope I'll go on doing a good job. But how are you? Hope to meet you on tumblr again ;)**

**THANK YOU ALL -**


	13. Chapter 13

**- Thank you so much for your patience, here's the new chapter - I'm writing the next one right now, but I don't know when I'll be able to post it - my medical exams did not went as well as expected, so I'm going to be quite busy with more analysis. But I'll update, promise! -**

* * *

"Are you sure about it?"

Richard rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time, trying to smooth down his ruffled bow-tie, "I'm sure, Isobel."

"We could still wait."

"I think I should let your family knows that I'm is back, or I suppose they'll get suspicious seeing me go back and forth from your house without explaining them what's going on."

"You're right."

Richard turned to look at her with a gentle smile, "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

She let out a small, nervous laugh, "No, of course no, it's just... it's seems so strange to be so happy while Mary is still grieving, and I'm too. It's almost... unfair. To Mary and George, of course, and to Matthew. He didn't have his chance to be happy."

"My love..." he gently took her in his arms, "Surely I can not have the presumption to know what your son would have thought about all of this, but he was a nice young man, and I'm sure he just wanted you to be happy. Because you are, aren't you?"

"I am," giving him a slightly broader smile, Isobel wiped her eyes, "So you're going to tell Robert. About your return and about us."

"Yes. Would you like to come with me?"

"No, I'd…" she bit gently her lower lip, frowning, "I'd rather go and see how Mary and George are going on. I'd like to spend some time with them."

"Of course," he kissed her cheek, "I'll go home then, change in something more suitable, partly explain the situation to Millar and go up to the Abbey. After that, may I invite you at dinner? It will probably be quite late when I'll leave Lord Grantham."

"Dinner? At your house? With young doctor Millar to play the embarrassed third wheel?" she smiled, amused, "Better if you come here."

"Just to have Molesley around, ready to go and tell everything to the Dowager Countess?"

"Causing a minor stroke to Cousin Violet is something I came to accept when I first started living there," she joked, hitting him playfully on the arm, "So yes, we'll have a nice dinner with my butler-spy."

Richard let out a small laugh, and kissed her softly. It seemed a whole new life, being there, in her house, being able to hug and kiss her. Surely the day before, while he was travelling back to Downton in that old train that was all but fast, it didn't seem possible. Yet, now they were, planning to tell her family they will get married as soon as possible.

Isobel smiled, her arms draped around his neck, "Deal, then?"

Again, he smiled, "Deal."

* * *

"I'm glad you're back!" exclaimed Lord Grantham, handing him a glass of brandy, "When did you come back?"

"Yesterday in the evening, Lord Grantham. It was a sudden decision."

"Sudden or not, I'm glad. Yesterday afternoon my Mother told us something about your intentions to stay in Scotland with your family, so I was quite sure you weren't about to come back; happy to see you've changed your mind in these few hours."

He and Isobel came back the day before, Richard mused, thinking about the first words of Lord Grantham, an half a day away from each other, yet the Dowager already knew almost everything; and told it to everyone. She really was devious, sometimes.

"I had something here worthier than my life in Scotland." he answered, politely and vague.

"Do you? And what?" Lord Grantham frowned, just to realised shortly after that he had been quite impolite with his doctor, "I'm sorry, doctor Clarkson, none of my business."

"Actually, it is, my Lord," ventured Richard, suddenly feeling his mouth dry.

Lord Grantham shot him a perplexed gaze and sat himself on the armchair of his wooden desk, inviting him do to the same on the couch, "Why you said that?"

Ignoring his advice, Richard went on talking, tense and nervous.

"You see, Lord Grantham, you're the financier and owner of the cottage hospital, so my return and stay directly involves you. Mrs Crawley and I thought about that, and -"

"So, you've see her."

"Yes, my Lord, shortly before coming here," he skirt the issue on the fact that he had spent the previous night and half the day with her, made love with her, ate with her as they were a normal couple, and proposed to her.

"And how is she? I've seen her yesterday for a little time."

"Admirably coping with her loss, my Lord," again, Richard asked himself if Lord Grantham had understood how strange had been Richard and Isobel's behaviour. Was he not suspicious about the fact that they had came back from the same place in the same day, and spent some time together after that? It seemed not.

"I'm glad to hear that. Please, go on."

"Yes, well, we had thought about it, and we think it will be better if doctor Millar will stay with us at the hospital. I'd really like an help there, specially a doctor, even if Mrs Crawley's help is always appreciated and useful. We thought we could also train him at his future role here."

"Are you thinking about retirement, doctor Clarkson?"

_I'm thinking about marriage_, he wanted to answer, but he simply smiled politely, "No, my Lord, but doctor Millar is young and promises to be a good doctor, one day."

"Very well. Where will he stay?"

Crucial point. Richard took a long breath, remembering what he had agreed with Isobel as they ate their modest lunch at her house some hours before, "Actually, he's staying at the Grantham's Arms and work at the hospital, but -"

"So you're here to ask me to give a cottage to the young doctor?"

"No, my Lord. We, Mrs Crawley and I, we had found an arrangement," again, he asked himself if Lord Grantham had already noticed the constant use of the pronoun _we_. Again, it seemed not.

"Well that's very good, Cousin Isobel always knows how to solve problems. How, this time?"

"Doctor Millar will have the hospital cottage, so he can be nearer to his work-place and start experimenting what truly means to be a available for an emergency every hour every day."

"So you need a new cottage, I'll arrange something, and -"

"No, my Lord," Richard interrupted him, feeling suddenly worried.

"Will you stay at the Grantham Arm's then? God gracious, that's absurd."

"No, my Lord."

"Then?" Lord Grantham looked at him, now deeply frowning, "What I'm missing?"

"I'll stay at Crawley House, Lord Grantham. If you agree with it, of course."

"What?" asked Lord Grantham, more perplexed than anything else, "Crawley House, may I ask why?"

"I've asked Mrs Crawley to marry me. She accepted this morning. So we thought we could just live at Crawley House, if you agree. If not, we'll find us a cottage just outside the village."

Lord Grantham blinked, surprised, his half empty-glass of brandy forgotten in his hand, so that it was inclined dangerously towards the carpet, risking to spill the expensive liquor on the equally expensive Persian piece of furniture.

Richard cleared gently his throat, "You're glass, Lord Grantham."

"Yes. God," he left the glass on his small desk in the library and looked up at him, shocked, "So you're getting married."

"Yes, my Lord."

"To Cousin Isobel."

"Yes, my Lord."

"I thought you couldn't stand her."

"In ten years of work partnership, I came to appreciate her, and to value her help and experience," Richard answered neutrally, trying not to show the extension of his love to her.

"More than appreciate, I dare to say, since you've asked her to marry you."

Richard blushed slightly, smiling embarrassed, "Of course."

"Very well," Lord Grantham beat a fist on his desk, beaming, "Finally good news!" he stood up, shook Richard's hand, and, to his surprise, slapped a playful hand on the doctor's back, "I'm so glad for you two!"

"Thank you, my Lord."

"Of course, we must tell it to Cora straight away, and to the girls of course! Happy news, finally!"

* * *

"So, is it true?"

Isobel lifted her head from the gurgling baby in her arm just in time to see Mary closing the door of her bedroom and approaching her.

"Is it true what?"

"That you're getting married. To doctor Clarkson. That's why Papa asked for me some minutes ago," without looking at her, Mary gently caressed her son's nose, "Is it true?"

"You don't approve it."

"Actually, I do," answered the young woman, surprising her, a little smile gracing her lips, "I'm happy for you."

"Are you?" asked Isobel, hoping not to sound too shocked. She and Mary had never got along very well, and she knew both of them knew it, and even if their terrible loss had drawn them nearer, she was still surprised by her kindness.

"I am. He is a good man, and of course we value him," Mary's hand slowly covered Isobel's and squeezed it, "I want you to be happy. As happy as possible. And if you decided to marry him, I know you're sure about your happiness with him, so I am in no position to stop you," a pang of guilt passed on Mary's face as she remembered how she acted towards Edith and Strallan back in 1914, but she ignored the memory as soon as she arrived, "Matthew would had wanted it too, and I had to carry on his memory, and -"

"Mary," quickly lowering George in his cradle, Isobel took a step forwards and embraced Mary, interrupting her before she broke down, "You don't need -"

"Does it ever become simpler?", she whispered, looking at her mother-in-law, with her brown eyes full of tears, "You have lost an husband before, does it get simpler? Does it ever get over?"

Isobel sighed and gently embraced her, before caressing her cheek slowly, as she had done to soothe her shortly before George's birth.

"No," she finally answered quietly, "It doesn't."

"Then how could you have survived it? This aching pain in the chest? Waking up in the morning in an empty bed?"

"Working. Taking care of my son."

"I don't work," spat out Mary, finally admitting her limits to someone else than herself, "I can't do anything. And I have no idea how to take care of George all alone, the nanny helps me."

"Then you have to learn," gently, Isobel led the young woman to the small couch in the room and made her sit, winning her weak resistance, "Listen, my dear. When my husband died so suddenly, Matthew was eleven-years-old, and our world collapsed around us. Of course I grieved him, he had been a good husband, but Matthew needed me more than the memory of my husband did, so I had to rebuilt again a life. Reginald had left us a little fortune, so I didn't have to take long shifts or night shifts at the hospital to raise the money we needed, but I was back to work. It kept by brain busy with tasks, for long hours, it really helped me to go on. And I have my brother and my father at my side, as you have your family here with you, and -"

"You have a brother," repeated mesmerised Mary, as it was the part of Isobel's speech that had hit her more, "You never told me you have a brother."

"Well... you never asked me," she smiled, not looking at her, remembering the similar conversation she had had in Scotland with Richard, "And we never get along well enough to let me tell you about my family," she added with a small, rueful smile.

Mary looked a little embarrassed, but went on talking, "How is he? He wasn't there at our wedding, was he?"

"He wasn't. He..." Isobel struggled for the words, "He and Matthew didn't go very well. My brother didn't like Matthew's choice of studies and work, he wanted him to be a doctor, like his father, grandfather, uncle, and other relatives. Said something about _breaking a long tradition of doctors_," both women laughed lightly at Isobel's brother's outburst, and Isobel was glad to feel the heaviness of grief slowly lifting a little from their shoulders, even if for just some minutes.

"He tried to be like a father to Matthew, you know. Tried to take my husband's place in my son's education and life to help him. My son didn't appreciate the effort too much."

"Well, your brother will not be disappointed by you, then," there was a glint in Mary's dark eyes, and it both surprised and cheered Isobel up.

"Why?"

"You're getting married to another doctor, surely not _breaking the tradition_," answered Mary smartly, the corner of her mouth twitching up in a smile.

Isobel looked at her is disbelief for her joke, then breaking out in a low, incredulous laugh, "You're quite right, my dear."

Mary smiled again, stood up and reached the crib, taking again her son in her arms, as she wasn't able to leave him for too long. Isobel sighed, worried again; she remembered herself acting in the same way after Reginald's sudden death, and she was preoccupied.

"Mary?"

The young woman lifted her dark eyes from her son's tiny face and look at her, "Yes, Isobel?"

"I was wondering..." Isobel bit her lips, unsure about it. It seemed a nice idea that morning, while getting dressed listening to Richard's voice in her bedroom; but now, saying it out aloud in front of her algid daughter-in-law, it worried her with its consequences.

"Yes? What is it?"

"I surely can't organise everything for the marriage alone, and Richard is frankly busied at the hospital, specially if he had to train Millar, so -" she realised she was babbling, so she stopped herself and looked at Mary, still waiting with a puzzled smile, "So I was wondering..."

"If you want me to ask Mama to help you, I'll do it gladly, but I'm sure you can ask her by yourself and -"

"Actually I was thinking about you."

"Me?" Mary blinked, surprised, but quickly regained her rigid composure, "Why me?"

She could be wrong, but Isobel had the clear sensation that there was a hint of suspect in her voice. She inwardly sighed: she knew they did not have a good relationship, but... Mary was her daughter-in-law, the mother of his only grandson, Matthew's, her Matthew's, beloved wife... it'd be nice to ask her. If he was still alive, Matthew would have appreciate her gesture...

"Well..." she began, uneasy, "I have a niece in Manchester, but I haven't seen her in a long time, here I do not have friends, and maybe your mother is busy. But you, my dear, you're my daughter-in-law. And I think we should learn to get along together better, for his sake," she nodded gently at the baby, "I'd like to see him a little bit more often. At Crawley House, maybe."

"Maybe with the doctor?"

Isobel blushed faintly, but didn't lowered her eyes, "He's going to be my husband. And George's grandfather by marriage. I hope you'll permit us, specially permit _him_, to be present in George's life."

The young, mourning woman sighed, but nodded tiredly, "Of course I will. Both help you with the wedding and permit you two to raise George with me. Actually... Isobel, I think I'll need your help, sometimes. Keeping my mind busy, you know. Certainly you know how to do."

"You can take care of the reception at Crawley House," Isobel smiled, inwardly celebrating her small victory, "Guests, invitations and flowers, then?"

* * *

**- Soooo ("_porcini mushrooms?_" - d'ye get the quote?), thank you for the numerous reviews! Personalised answers, here we go!**

**_Demilune_, I wrote a crossfic about Doctor Who, but I'm not quite satisfied with it :/ then, I really appreciate you help in beating Fellowes ;) Montepellier is lovely, really, I visited it years ago, and about Venice… I live an hour-and-half by train from Venice!**

**_Black Widow Mistress_, noooooo, don't die! I'm glad I satisfied your expectations about the last chapter ^^ hope to be good enough also in this one.**

**_TeaPower_. It's not that you sound like an old pervert. YOU ARE an old pervert, and we both know it :D**

**_Corriente_, oh, you have a sister, I envy you! And I'm really happy you liked both the "funny" part with Gretchen and the more somber one with our love-birds. I think it's always a good thing to balance the two aspects!**

**_Spirit-of-the-time_, so here you have some of the Crawley reactions, but we will have more! What will the Dowager Countess think? WWTDCT?**

**_Batwings_ and _Fancatt_, have faith in me, I'm planning their small confrontation - the only time that Isobel will someone else to argue with Violet! But it'll take a little bit more, sorry :(**

**_Lavender&Hay_, I'm going to write to you on tumblr ;) I'm glad I wrote what you wanted!**

**_Guest_, hello! It looks like you, Batwings and Fancatt can read my mind, since I've planned both the wedding plans and the Gretchen-Violet meeting ;)**

**_SarLei_, she'll be back, I promised, with her Scottish accent and her brisk manners ;)**

**Until next times, hugs to everybody! -**


	14. Chapter 14

**- As you may imagine, I began to write this story right after the Christmas Special, since none of us liked what happened during the Thirsk Fair.**

**Now I have a new spur, as my dear friend Eugenia reminded me yesterday in my despair. The interview by Gareth Neame, Downton Abbey executive producer. Have you already read it? Yes? The you perfectly know what I'm talking about. Haven't ready yet? Great, do not read it. Do not let him ruin your next season! -**

**- This is for _TeaPowder_, since I know she had quite an awful afternoon today. _Kill them, my dear, kill them all!_ -**

* * *

"_Half a week I hae waited for yer news!_"

"Gretchen..."

"_Ye shoud hae called me afore!_"

"I'm callin' ye nou."

"_With half a week of late, an' I wis so woriat, an'_ -"

"Are ye happy for the news?"

"_Happy?_" Gretchen laughed softly at the other side of the line, forgetting her nuisance, "_Dinna be silly, Richard, of coorse I'm happy! An' ye haena ony idea hou happy are the bairns at knowin' thay wad hae a new aunt!_"

Richard smiled, touched, "Ye hae already told thaim?"

"_Why not?_" there was a perplexed note in her voice, "Surely I hope yese twa will come up to Edinburrie to stay with hus fo' some days after the weddin'? Thay like her a lot."

"Actually, Gretchen… wese war wonderin' if yese wad come haur fo' the ceremony an' reception'."

"_Hus?_" again, Gretchen was surprised, "_Yese want hus at yer weddin'? In Downton?_"

"Of coorse," absently, Richard played with the wire of the telephone, not willing to admit how nervous he was about all of it, "Isobel's brither an' nephews will be present, an' also her extended family of coorse, so I dinna see wha yese shoudna be thaur with hus. I'd like to hae ma family with me, ye ken."

"_Me an' all ma children?_"

"Well, I'd like Harold an' Gordon to be haur too, but this wad be quite -."

"_Did ye tell thaim somehaw?_" now, in her voice there was a excited note, "_Harold an' Gordon will be thaur, mebbe? It wad be marveloos!_"

"I hae already send a coople of telegrams. Callin' thaim by phain it's almost a miracle! And ye ken thay wad probably dinna get to hae a permit, e'en if I manage to reach thaim in time."

"_I ken... an' it's a shame, I wad really like to hae thair news more often; or see thaim more often. But, fo' a moment, I pure hoped ye haed managed to contact thaim,_" she sighed and Richard knew she missed their brothers deeply, "_Hae ye and yer guidwife-tae-be already think 'bout a date?_"

He cleared his throat; there was still something absurd and incredible in defining the proud and independent Isobel Crawley his _wife-to-be_, but it filled him with pride,"We thooght 'bout the seicont week of May, so both yese an' Isobel's brither will be able to arrive on time. Whit ye think?"

"_I'm still perplexed by the fact yese want all of hus. Surely we dinna live up to the ither guests_."

"Gretchen..."

"_Ye told me hou is the buiner-society. I dinna want me or ma grandchildren to ruin yer day, that's aw_."

"Yese winna; yese will aw be fantastic. An' I want yese haur, it will make Isobel huir uv a happy. She adores the bairns, ye ken that."

"_Well, then…" Gretchen faltered again "If yer sure..._"

"Wese are. Wese will book yese some rooms at the inn haur; a room fo' ye, ane for the lassies, and anither ane for the lads. I think Isobel's brither wad stay at Crawley House wi' her, is that fine with ye? Stayin' at the inn?"

"_More than. So…_" Gretchen laughed, still incredulous, "_Yese are waitin' for all of hus? Ye sure? Fower bairns and a Scottish woman?_"

Richard smiled, broadly, "Aye."

* * *

Closing quietly the door behind him, Richard smiled. It had been quite a tiring day at the hospital, too many papers to fill without Isobel's useful and essential help; but spending the afternoon and evening with her, planning their wedding, seemed just the perfect cure for him.

That, and the fact from her small sitting-room were coming cheerful voices and laughs, as well as an infant's gurgle.

He handed his coat, hat and satchel to Molesley - who was still surprised by seeing him almost daily at Crawley House, and headed to the sitting-room, as silently as possible; wanting to catch a glimpse of Isobel playing with her grandson without knowing him to be there.

Poking his head beyond the door, Richard smiled; watching Isobel playing with baby George was always something endearing, but watching her planning their wedding with her grandson in her arms and her daughter-in-law positively smiling at her side was almost overwhelming.

Had it not been for the fact they both wore their mourning clothes, Richard would have expected to see Matthew Crawley sitting in the armchair next to his family, organising with his wife his mother's wedding, reading all the papers scattered on the small table, choosing the flowers from a book in Lady Mary's hands, or the cake from another book.

"Doctor Clarkson, good afternoon."

The younger woman's voice took him by surprised and he looked up at her as she closed the book and left in on the table above some sheets thick of notes in Isobel's small handwriting.

"Lady Mary, I'm glad to see you're fine," she smiled a little at his kind words, "I'm sorry I'm interrupting you, but -"

He was cut off by Isobel in his arms, kissing him gently. Just before closing his eyes, he saw Lady Mary discretely lowering her eyes on baby George, now on the carpet playing with his plushes, and knelt beside him to entertain him.

"Hello, my love."

"Isobel," embracing her more firmly, he gently took her hand and kissed it, "I'm very glad when you throw yourself in my arms like that, but for a moment I feared you were going to drop your grandson on the floor in order to get me."

She laughed, her beautiful, rich laugh, and Richard felt lighter just by seeing her finally relaxed. Then she turned from him and went to kneel beside the baby, exchange a quick glance with her daughter-in-law and lift George in her arms, making him giggle by kissing him repeatedly.

"Richard, take him."

"What?"

"Come on, take him," Isobel gently put the baby in his arms, winning his weak and stupefied resistance, "There. I think it's time for you to properly get to know him, since you two will spend a lot of time with each another."

"I've already know him, Isobel."

"As a doctor. Not as a member of the family," smiling broadly, she kissed the baby's curly head, "I'll get him some milk."

Richard and Lady Mary, curiously silent, watched her leaving the room in a swift swirl of her dress, then brought their attention back to the baby.

And George, watching with wide blue eyes the stranger man now towering above him, simply took Richard's little-finger in his chubby hand and put it in his small mouth, biting it softly with his toothless gingives, gurgling satisfied.

"You're good with babies," murmured Lady Mary, gently stroking her son's cheek, "Papa always makes George cry when he cradles him."

"I have four grandnephews in Scotland, my Lady," Richard answered, carefully holding the baby, watching him tenderly, "I'd delivered some of them myself."

"My, my," she smiled, surprised, "I didn't know Cousin Isobel's has a brother, and now I find out you have so many grandnephews. Will they come here for the wedding?"

"They will, Lady Mary," he finally lifted his eyes on the young woman's ones, "But Isobel does not know; it's a surprise."

"I see," Lady Mary smiled, that kind, gentle smile Richard had seen so rarely on her pale face in the last mournful months, "You're secret is safe with us, isn't it, George?"

Richard smiled too, gratefully, "Thank you, Milady."

"I can not leave you alone for some minutes and you're already planning against me!" Isobel's voice arrived in a mock indignant tone, "My husband-to-be and my daughter-in-law plotting against me! Tell me, George," she gave the baby his small baby-bottle, "Can I trust you?"

"I fear, Cousin Isobel," laughed lightly Mary, "That George had already allied himself with doctor Clarkson!" then, addressing to the older man, "I think he likes you, doctor. Very much indeed."

Richard smiled, unable to tear his eyes from the baby in his arms, drinking his warm milk from the baby-bottle, "And I like him. This little chap."

There was something different, he understood suddenly, in cradling Isobel's grandson from when he cradled his own grandnephews back in Scotland. He dearly loved them all, adored Finnean and Neil, Bonnie and Siobhan with all of his heart, but with George something was clearly and enourmously different.

Baby George Crawley, future Earl of Grantham, was going to be his family.

* * *

Dinner now long forgotten, Molesley's still surprised looks too, Richard sat comfortably on the settee in front of the fire, his long arm safely wrapped around Isobel's tiny frame, her head resting on his chest, tucked under his chin - she seemed so small.

Breathing in the delicate scent of her hair, Richard remembered Lord Grantham's questions in those few days - about his family in Scotland, the hospital in Downton, his work, his opinion about the young doctor, his plans about his future life with Cousin Isobel, with his wife.

Matter of fact, Lord Grantham had been very curious, almost like a child - and maybe that was why he was such a respected Landlord, he mused, looking at the fire, momentarily distracted. Because of his constant and kind interests for his employees at the Abbey, as well as his farmers and the people at the village.

But because of Lord Grantham's curiosity, Richard suddenly found himself staying with the Earl in his library drinking brandy for far more time he was used to, and often arrived at Crawley House just in time for a late, light dinner - it struck him quite suddenly the realisation that Lord Grantham was treating him quite different from before; as he was accepting him within the enlarged circles of his enlarged as well family - as he was finding in the doctor someone to talk to, sometimes.

On the other hand, it seemed her Ladyship and her daughters had accepted the news quickly and quite well, happy yet surprised by what they must thought be a Cousin Isobel's sudden and capricious decision - they surely were talking about it, but not at Isobel's presence; but it was safe to say their decision had taken them all out of guard.

Surely, Richard mused, he could not complain about the fact Isobel usually arrived at home after all of her commitments long before him, so he when he arrived at her house in the evening, she was waiting for him with a kind, gentle smile and a soft kiss.

Slightly tightening his grip on her warm body, Richard thought again about arriving at home late at night and find a lovely wife in a warm house waiting for him, and not his cold, empty cottage as always; thinking about such a welcome and huge change in his future, with such a woman always made him feel giddy and extremely grateful.

She was a gift, and he knew it, a beautiful gift from life, and he could not find a reason why such a wonderful woman should be in love with him.

"You should call your sister, you know," murmured Isobel somewhere under his head, "To give her the good news."

He murmured something in her hair, and Isobel thought he was slowly falling asleep. Carefully, she nestled in his arms, "And I should call Edward. I'd like him to be there, what you think?"

"He's your brother, Isobel, of course you want him here."

"I'll ask him to bring also Eddie and Peony, then," she added with a tender note in her voice, "I haven't seen them in ages!"

"So I'm going to meet all of your family?" he joked, with a fake worried voice.

"Well, my brother and his children, yes. He'll like you, I'm sure," she stretched herself slowly along his body, awakening familiar stirrings in him, "You two will get along well."

"As you and Gretchen did?"

"Aye," she answered softly, her lips barely inches from his, telling him she was far beyond thinking about their respective relatives at their wedding.

"Scottish," he said, chuckling, "From your lips, such a fascinating dialect."

She kissed him, wrapping her arm tenderly around his neck. Her lips were soft on his, but something in the way she was holding him to her told him she had something else in her mind, and he couldn't be sorry about it. But when she drew slightly from him, she was looking quite worried and thoughtful.

"I asked Mary to help me with the guests, so we can take it slow in Ripon, then come back and find the small reception here already started. You don't mind, do you? She needs to get distracted..."

"Of course I don't mind, darling, it's a beautiful idea, and she's your daughter-in-law,"

"Soon, _our_ daughter-in law."

He smiled at her, touched by her words, then sighed, burying his face in her hair, removing some pins int he meantime, thinking about their wedding, "Isobel, I'm so sorry we couldn't get properly married at the church."

"Not to worry about it, my dear."

"But you deserved it, Isobel; and I'd really love to see you coming down the aisle of the small church..."

"Well, you'll see me coming down the registration office room in Ripon, at my brother's arm."

"I'm sure you'll be beautiful," Isobel gently rolled her eyes at his words, and sunk her head back into his chest, so he was able to plant a kiss in her hair before going on, "Isobel, may I ask you a favour?"

"Of course, my dear. Everything."

"You remember... the dress you wore at Thirsk?"

"My light blue dress?" she nodded, "Yes, of course. With a matching hat and coat."

"Exactly, that one... do you think…" he went silent for some second, than went on, somehow embarrasses, absently caressing her back, "I know you're still in mourning, but for the middle of May I think you'll be in half-mourning, so will you... well..."

"Come on, Richard," she patted his chest gently, "Out with it."

"Would you wear it?"

She blinked in surprised at his blurted words, "You'd like me to wear that dress at our wedding?"

"It's horribly sentimental, I know, but it reminds me of our great time in Thirsk before I spoilt it and -"

She cut him off with her fingers on his lips, "It remind me of my son, I wore it also at his wedding. And if it's so important to you, I'll wear it."

"Thank you," Richard kissed her gently her fingers than her lips, hugging her more firmly, "It means the world to me."

Isobel smiled, poking his nose with her index finger, "You sweet man. Satisfied with such small things."

"I'm satisfied by you, my darling, and believe me, you're not a small thing. You're everything."

She smiled again, blushing bashfully but keeping his gaze for some second, before lowering her head again, her eyes locked in the fire. She was silent for long moments, and he thought her to be asleep when she finally spoke, "Can we stay here a little bit longer?"

"Her? In front of the fire?"

"Yes, just like this. Together. Just little bit more."

"Of course, just let me find you a rug," Richard took the wooden-blanket from the back of her settee and spread it carefully above her, carefully covering her body, "Here. And Isobel…"

"Yes?"

"I've already called Gretchen," he smiled at her surprised and delighted gasp, "She'll arrive the week before the wedding, with the children. She said they're all very excited about their new aunt."

"They considered me their aunt?" Isobel lifted her head, watching him with a delighted smile, then suddenly becoming serious, "You're kidding me, Richard."

"I'm not! You will become their aunt by marriage, but the children already adore you," he took her chin in his fingers and lifted carefully her face, "Gretchen told me while we where in Scotland."

"While we were acting like two idiots?"

"Och aye, while we are acting like two idiots; but I'm glad we had resolved that problem," he gave her a small smile, before bending over to kiss her, "Would you like to go to bed, my dear?"

Isobel's smile had never been than broad, Richard thought, as she smiled up to him in that very moment, positively beaming, "Yes, please."

* * *

**- _Demilune_, and here we have our dear Gretchen! But remember that she will be in Downton soon, and she will face Cora, the family, Violet… and that will be more than funny!  
****And yup, I live near Venezia, in Vicenza. Have you ever heard about it? The city of Palladio? *[advertising_spot_mode: ON]***

**_Black Widow Mistress_, I adore Robert, I adore him and his blindness, and specially his epic first-season: "OMG, Cora, you're pregnant, OMG, how?!" - so yes, I put him also in there. Isn't he adorable? :D**

**_Guest_, dear _Guest_, I hope you like Isobel's (well Richard's!) choice for her wedding-dress, as well as her planning the reception with Mary ;)**

**Thank you all, my beautiful people! Thank you! -**


	15. Chapter 15

**- I'm recovering from two medical visits _and_ the CM-SeasonFinale Shock (OMFG). So, please, be merciful with me! -**

* * *

Richard thanked Molesley with a smile, gave him his hat and coat at waited for the butler to disappear in the corridor before heading to Isobel's sitting-room, quite puzzled by Molesley's breathless aspect, as he was trying to give a good impression. And he could not understand why, since he'd personally had a good opinion of her butler since the first time he had seen him, years ago. But the reason of Molesley minor frenzy became clear as soon as Richard stepped into the small room, and his smile petrified on his lips.

Isobel was sitting on the couch, her straight, elegant back to him, and was smiling, smiling one of her beautiful, broad smiles that she usually reserved to him. This time, however, her happiness was addressed towards another person.

A man was at her side, on the same coach, too much near her to be proper, almost as near as he was when he spent his evenings with her. Yet, for Goodness sake, he was going to marry her, _marry_ her! That man... surely wasn't.

As polite as possible, also to avoid to startle her, Richard cleared his throat, standing awkwardly at the door, playing absently with his pocket-clock chain - Isobel would probably said him that was his little mania when he was nervous, but he drove out that thought for the moment, too worried.

"Richard!"

Her cheerful voice, as well as her bright smile, took him out of his reveries, and in a few moments he found his arms full of his wife-to-be, her soft lips pressed tenderly on his cheek.

"I'm so happy you're home! Come!"

There was a new happiness in her, and she was positively beaming, a different happiness from when they were together, a different happiness from the one she showed when she was with George, as she took his hand in hers and lead him to the couch.

The man was looking at them, a small smile on his lips as Isobel drew Richard in front of the couch.

"You're worrying him, Isobel."

His voice was quiet, teasing, and Richard suddenly dislike his direct approach to her. He tensed at her side.

"Oh, don't be silly!" she, too, was comfortable with him, at ease, her voice as teasing as his.

"I'm not silly, I'm noticing his reactions to me," the smile widened just a fraction and the man's eyes danced on them, amused, "You should present us, I think."

"Oh, yes, you're right," firmly gripping Richard's arm, throwing him a happy smile, Isobel looked up at him, without noticing his discomfort, "My darling, this is Edward. And Edward," she said, looking at the man on the couch, "By now I think you've already realised he's my husband-to-be."

"Since you're so terribly happy about being with him, I supposed so as soon as he entered the room," replied the man, standing up and letting out his hand, "Edward John Turnbull," he said, than added, with a grin, "Her brother."

"Oh," feeling the air suddenly leaving his lungs, Richard took the man's long man and weakly shook it, "Nice to meet you, doctor Turnbull."

"It's my pleasure, doctor Clarkson. May I suggest we sit down for a bit? You seem... a little bit queasy."

With a grateful smile, Richard sank on the armchair in front of the couch while Isobel, after planting a kiss on his hair, busied herself with tea and biscuits fussing around the room.

"I'm sorry I gave you quite a scare," said Turnbull seriously, "I thought Isobel had told you about my visit."

"No, no, she -" Richard stopped, cleared his mind, and started again, "She didn't. I went to the hospital straight from my home this morning, I had no time to talk to her. But I'm glad to know you."

"So am I," carefully interlacing his fingers, Turnbull looked at him, "I came her before the wedding because I'd like to talk to you."

"Goodness," Isobel handed both of them a cup of tea and looked down at her brother, "Should I worry about it?"

"Of course not, my dear, but I think you'd better leave us alone for a while."

"This is not about turning in pistols at dawn, is it?" replied Isobel, glancing suspiciously at Turnbull, "I'm going to marry him whatever you say, Edward."

"Don't I know well enough how strong minded you are, Isobel?"

"I learnt from the best."

"Quite a compliment. Yet..."

"Alright, understood. Since you don't want me there, I think I should pay a visit to Cousin Violet. She wrote me a note saying she'd like to meet me," a small sigh escaped Isobel's lips, "Surely she wants to expose all of her objections about our decision. I'm surprised she hadn't written me this week yet!"

"So you're going to leave two men alone, in your house, while you visit a relative? Don't you worry about what others may think?"

"Never," Isobel squeezed her brother's shoulder, looking at him, "Just promised me I'll not find two corpses in my sitting-room."

"I'll try my best."

She smiled at her brother's answer than left the room to retrieved her coat. Richard followed her, took the garment from her hands and help her putting it in, kissing her neck in the meantime.

"Should I be worried?"

"Of course not, my love," Isobel murmured under her breath, kissing him lightly, "He just wants to know you. We should worry more about the Dowager Countess."

"I'm sure you'll handle her perfectly," Richard kissed her back than let her go, "I love you."

"I love you too, Richard. Now go back to the sitting-room and face the enemy."

He smiled and she waved, poking her head in the room, "See you later, Edward."

"Have a nice tea, Isobel."

She snorted, and in a second she was gone. They waited in silence until they heard the front door closing with a thud, waited for Molesley to bring some more tea. Then Turnbull went into an even thicker silence, and Richard felt something like hostility coming from him; he was suddenly cold, as his cheerful and teasing behaviour was only a facade in Isobel's presence.

Waiting for the other doctor to say something, Richard busied himself in his thoughts; finding a unknown man joking and chatting with his Isobel, fearing for some horrible seconds that there was someone else that important in her life, fearing to have misunderstand her - he was now able to understand how she must had felt when she had first saw him with Gretchen. A cold, white pain, something like a blade of ice in his heart.

"You're very quite, doctor Clarkson."

"You said we have something to talk about, doctor Turnbull, so I'm waiting for you to enlighten me," he had no intention to snap at him in that way, but Turnbull's aloof tone made him nervous.

"Should we go in the garden, then?"

Richard nodded, stood up and preceded Turnbull in the garden, closing gently the rear door at their backs. The garden was fair big, well-kept, Isobel's ability with plants and flowers showing in all its splendour.

He threw a cautious glance at a thoughtful Turnbull, following him same steps behind. He was tall, taller than Isobel and himself. Short, dark greying hair, with side-line, watchful light eyes. Just a little hunchbacked, maybe a consequences of his work on papers as a doctor, his hands tangled behind his back as he observed Isobel's flowers. An expensive black suit, expensive leather shoes, more than expensive pocket-watch hanging from his waistcoat, everything in him said something about a well-to-do life in Manchester.

Suddenly, Turnbull started to speak.

"As I said to Isobel before, I'm not going to say a word against this wedding. Yet I want to ask you something."

"I'm at your disposition, doctor Turnbull."

"Are you going to make my sister happy?"

Richard looked at him in disbelief for some seconds, then with palpable anger, "If you are suggesting that I'm marrying her for her money, I swear I -"

"Actually, I'm not. I just want her to be happy. Let me explain myself," again he went silent, walking between the bushes in her rear garden, closely followed by Richard.

"Isobel was very young when she married doctor Crawley. Barely eighteen, our father chosen her husband for her. I'd worked with him for some times, and he had spent months studying under my father with me; I got to know him quite well and to appreciate his medical skills, yet..."

He trailed off and Richard ventured, a little bit uneasy, "You didn't like him?"

"I didn't," Turnbull smiled at him, almost relieved that he had told so in his place, "Isobel didn't like my wife, and she was right, I didn't like Reginald Crawley, and I was wrong. Quite awkward family reunions, actually. You see, doctor Clarkson," he started wondering again, "Doctor Crawley was a good husband. Kind, nice, very... _polite_ to her. Respectful to her wishes, he let her study with him, let her do whatever she liked. Yet... sometimes she was unhappy with him. Melancholic. She wanted a big family, Crawley gave her only a child. She wanted a quiet life with him, but he was often away for work. Isobel knew her husband would be almost always busied with his work, but he was _too_ busied. He let his wife and son alone for too much time, and Isobel suffered because of it; of course she never complained, you know her probably as well as me, but I saw her becoming sadder and sadder everyday. Reginald Crawley was a good husband, never disrespectful, very kind to her, as I said, and he never made her miss anything; but he sacrificed my sister's youth, her childbearing years, on the altar of his studies. What I want to ask you is quite simple," Turnbull turned suddenly to look directly in his eyes, "Are you going to leave my sister alone because of your work?"

"We work together," replied Richard, taken aback by Turnbull's frankness.

"So did Crawley."

"Doctor Turnbull. I do not know if Isobel has already told you about our plans, but we agreed on keeping a new, young doctor at the hospital, so we will both be able to work less. Neither of us is thinking about retirement, but we will have more free time. So, to answer your question, no, I'll not leave Isobel alone because of work. At the risk of sounding cheesy, I don't think I could leave her at all."

"Well, then," Turnbull smiled, his thin smile, "It seems the two of us will go well together."

* * *

"And so... you're getting married."

"Yes, Cousin Violet."

"Then I take your trip in Scotland went better than expected," the Dowager smiled her little smile, "You told me he wasn't about to come back."

"I'm glad he changed his mind."

"I don't doubt it."

The two women squared each another over the small, elegant tea-table between them. For once, the Dowager Countess wasn't totally hostile towards her, more curious, and Isobel couldn't really tell what was more annoying. An hostile Dowager or an I'm-curious-but-I-will-never-admit-it-to-you Dowager, both were uncomfortable.

Isobel took a sip of tea and smiled gently, trying to prepare herself for the next question.

"Have you already started to organise the wedding?"

She blinked, surprised, "We're getting married in a week, my brother arrived this very morning, of course it's all organised!"

"Travis said the church is not booked," was the Dowager's sharp reply.

"Oh," Isobel momentarily went silent, sensing problems ahead in the discussion, "We're not getting married at the church."

"Why not? It's your church, your community, of course you can. Travis is waiting for you to book the church. Almost all the Crawleys had got married in that church."

Isobel nodded absently, turning her small silver spoon in the delicate tea-cup, smiling so slightly, "There's an underlying problem."

"Why?"

"Travis is an Anglican priest, he cannot marry us."

"You're both Anglican, I don't see -"

"Richard is Scottish. He's Catholic."

The Dowager went suddenly silent, her eyes widening a little in surprise and, to Isobel's amusement, in horror, "He's _what_?"

"Catholic. As almost all the Scots. We can't get married at the church, so we're going to go to Ripon and get married there."

A thick silence filled the sitting-room. Then Isobel spoke aloud the question that had formed in her head while they were talking about Richard's religious beliefs, "Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe Sybil too became Catholic?"

"_What?_"

"She married Mr. Branson in Ireland. Her daughter was baptised Catholic. Maybe she was Catholic too."

"Of course not! There haven't been a Catholic in the Crawley family since -"

"Since the Reformation. Yes, I remember," Isobel sighed, sensing that the Family, right now in the person of the Dowager Countess, was starting to raise up again a barrier between themselves and something new, in this case her husband-to-be; and, as always, she was in the middle of the battle-field.

"Our doctor is Catholic," the murmured words of the Dowager tore her from her thoughts, and she raised her eyes to look at her.

"He'll not try to poison or kill you instead of saving your life, you know," bitterly answered Isobel, defending him quite fiercely from the Dowager's veiled accusation, "Those days are over."

The Dowager turned her eyes to the window and for some seconds had the grace to look embarrassed. Then her glance was back to Isobel, cold and superior as always, "And so your brother is here."

"He arrived this morning, yes. His children will arrive tomorrow; they're all staying at Crawley House."

"You never told us you have a brother."

"I told Cousin Cora at our very first dinner together," replied Isobel, annoyed by the lack of communication between them, "I have no idea why she never told you so."

"He's a doctor too, I imagine."

"Yes, he works in Manchester, like my first husband. They used to work together, sometimes"

"His name?"

Isobel bit her lower lip softly, trying to calm herself down; she should be used to the Dowager's interrogations, yet when they came to her family she still found them very intrusive. Nevertheless, she smiled as politely as possible, and answered her question, "Edward Turnbull. Doctor Edward John Turnbull."

The Dowager's light eyes snapped back to Isobel, closely squaring her, "Is he a relative of doctor John Turnbull?"

Isobel blinked, surprised by that very name on the older woman's lips, "John Turnbull was our father. But he died years ago."

"Your father?" the Dowager looked at her, bemused, "John Turnbull's daughter? Is that you?"

"Yes," answered Isobel, puzzled by the Dowager's surprise and shock, "Why?"

"Doctor Turnbull was Lord Grantham's doctor."

"Cousin Robert's doctor? Really? That's quite a surprise."

"Not Robert," replied briskly the Dowager, looking at Isobel in a new, respectful way, "The late Lord Grantham's doctor. My husband's doctor."

"Oh."

"He was a good doctor. He helped by husband in his last months," the Dowager's voice was quite now, so very quite, and Isobel vaguely remembered that very soft tone from when the older woman talked with Mrs. Levinson, months before, "He often talked about his daughter, and his son too. About his family," she stopped and eyed her: to Isobel, it was like if the Dowager was looking at her in a different way, if was debating the facts in her head; going on arguing with her or respecting her for being the daughter of her husband's doctor, "And... I'm sorry for your mother."

Wanting to avoid her penetrating gaze, Isobel lowered her eyes again on her hands holding the cup, but the Dowager stood still and watched Isobel's reactions to her words crossing quickly her pale face: her eyes were now big, fixed on the teacup, and the Dowager had the clear sensation she was keeping at bay her emotion with some difficulties.

"Thank you."

"Child-birth?"

"Yes. With her third child. They didn't make it. My father blamed himself for all of his life."

"I'm sorry."

"It happened a lot of time ago," Isobel smiled, forcedly, "Now it's just a memory."

"A painful one."

"Just as painful as losing an husband or a son, and both to soon. Yes, it's painful memory."

"I know. Lord Grantham was..." the Dowager's voice cracked, and for the first time, Isobel saw her rigid facade slipping away for some seconds, "He died soon. When someone you cared dies, it's always too soon. I cannot understand what does it mean to lose so many relatives, but I'm not totally indifferent to it."

Isobel nodded, smiling slightly; there was still that icy barrier between her and the Dowager, but somewhere there was a small crack in the wall. They were both widows, and, somehow, the Dowager was able to understand a small part of her pain; and it comforted her.

"You should come to the Abbey one of this evening," again the older woman's voice was brisk, as to make Isobel understand that the time of shared memories and pains was over, that they still were enemies, or something like that, "Before the wedding, I mean. To let the Family know the guests."

"Yes. We gladly accept the invitation."

"Maybe next days? So your brother will be present?"

"It sounds perfect."

"Good," the Dowager took another small sip of tea, and then looked at Isobel, the curious but embarrassed expression back on her features, even if she was trying to look desperately as indifferent as possible, as what she was asking was a mere courtesy, failing spectacularly, "Have you already thought something about... well, a honeymoon?"

Isobel smiled, her first true smile since she had arrived there, "Actually, we haven't yet. But I've quite a clear idea."

* * *

**- Another round of personalised thanks! You're wonderful!**

**_Guest_, yup, the blue dress. Because I LOVE that blue dress. Because she's stunning in that dress. Because she's "all pale blu and adorable and sweet" (cit. TeaPowder) in that dress!**

**_Demilune_, wait for a PM, I'll tell you about Vicenza there ;) then… Neame! Neame! Goodness, man, you're such an idiot! I'll personally hurt him and Fellowes!**

**_TeaPowder_, and after Neame,_ zack!_ they kill us also in CM. I'm shocked. That's unfair. Quite a lot. And about the ADMM's missile… ROAR, damn you JKR, the sinking of Lusitania was nothing compared!**

**_Black Widow Mistress_, baby George ** I'll put baby George everywhere, everywhere, EVERYWHERE. I mean, his adorable. Chubby blonde little baby! Thank you!**


	16. Chapter 16

**- I remember once I told _Lavender&Hay_ that this chapter would be about Richard and Isobel's wedding. Well, I LIED - _Rule #1: the Doctor lies_. So, my dear friends, you'll have to wait just a little bit more. I wanted to finish the roundup of relatives. -**

**- I'm sorry for the late, but I cannot use _Word_ or _Pages_ -or any other programme with a white screen - for more than half-an-hour at a time; my eyes are quite wimbley wombley those days. -**

* * *

"Well, it's _huge_," a young feminine voice emerged from the dark.

"Of course it's huge. It's an _Abbey_," an equal young male voice answered hers.

"Of course it's an Abbey, but I had no idea it was _that_ huge."

The boy just nodded, so the girl went on, nudging him gently, "It is, isn't it? Enormous, I mean."

"We should sneak out from dinner…"

"... and explore it."

"You're not going anywhere," Edward Turnbull Sr. stepped from the darkness, resting his hands on his children's shoulders, "You're not going to spoil your aunt's dinner with her new family. She wants to introduce us, so be polite. Behave properly, for her."

They both nodded haltingly, "Yes, Papa."

"And you have already met Clarkson, so be kind with him too."

The girl lifted her head and smiled at her father, "I like him, Papa. He reminds me of you."

"Peony's right, Papa. You too look a lot like each another."

"Both handsome."

Turnbull raised a eyebrow at his daughter, a small smile on his lips, "I don't think those are proper comments to do, my dear."

"So, do you like it?" Isobel finally got off the car, helped by Turnbull, and looked up at the Abbey, feeling truly nervous about that bulk of bricks for the first time in her life.

"Of course they like it, my dear."

"You never told us it was that huge, aunt Isobel," replied Peony, her eyes fixed again on the big house.

"Well, no," she smiled at her, heading to the front door at her brother's arm, "I preferred to describe you the inhabitants, not the walls."

"Quite a shame," replied Edward, "Since we don't know what to think about the people inside."

"Edward," hissed Turnbull, stopping just outside the big opened doors, "Remember what I've told you before?"

"By kind with our guest," answered promptly the young man.

"Do not ruin aunt Isobel's dinner," went on his sister.

"Do not explore the Abbey."

"And be kind to doctor Clarkson, too."

"And we'll do it, you know, because we like him."

"But you told us those are not things to say."

Isobel chuckled, amused, but Turnbull simply rolled his eyes in annoyance, "I'm sorry, Isobel."

"What for?" his sister looked at him, puzzled, as they both stepped in the Abbey, "They're adorable, Edward."

"Not when you spend your days with them, answering you in that way."

She smiled and let Turnbull take off her coat before handing it to Carson, as silent as always, standing in the doorway and waiting for them. Isobel watched their dark coats being withdrew by some young footmen, and knew it was time, really it was time, to let her new family meet her old family. _Well, to let my old family meet my new family and the newest addiction to my new family_, she mused, seeing the Granthams approaching, her eyes looking for Richard; he must be already there, waiting for her.

"Isobel."

And suddenly he was there, silently, at her side, already holding gently her elbow; she turned slightly, beaming up at him, her sweetest smile on her lips, "Richard."

Gently, he took her hand and kissed it, before turning it and planting a kiss also on her palm, "I'm so glad you're finally here," he murmured against her skin, "I was running out of arguments of conversations with Lord Grantham."

"I'm sure you would be able to find something more to talk about, my dear."

"Without shocking the ladies with grim tales about surgical operations? Hardly! They're not like you."

She let out a small, blissful laugh and suddenly all the eyes in the foyer were upon them. Isobel smiled and squeezed Richard's hand, partially hidden by his body, "I'd really prefer to stay here and talk with you about everything and nothing, but I think the others will not agree. We're their guests after all."

Nodding, Richard took her slim hand and linked her arm through his, heading her to the small group in front of them. The ladies well all still wearing the half-mourning, except for the Dowager, almost always in black since her late husband's death, and the very same Isobel, dressed in a elegant black dress covered in small glittering pearls - to his eyes, she had never been that beautiful and splendid in her mourning.

In front of them, Turnbull was standing between a young man and a young woman, watching them proudly, carrying on the elegant and well-mannered tradition of the presentation between families and new relatives. Gently, he pushed the young man towards Lord Grantham, continuing an address begun when Isobel and Richard were lost in each another's presence. Richard had the clear impression they had just lost the greeting, embraces and shakings of hands between the two family, but he couldn't care less - this wasn't their night, this was the families' night, and they were trying to stay in the background. Their day was about to come, but wasn't there yet.

"And these are my children. My son, Edward. And my daughter Peony."

Glad to Isobel at his side, holding firmly her arm, at Turnbull's voice Richard finally moved his eyes from her glowing with happiness expression, looking at her family.

By know, he knew her brother, but he had never properly seen her nephews. _They are like water_, he remembered Turnbull said, _I never know what they're thinking or what they're going to do. And that's what make them so special_. It seemed Turnbull's description was perfect for his children.

Young Edward Turnbull Jr. was tall, thin, and perfectly dressed in his black suit. Light blue eyes, greek nose, reddish hair carefully arranged - not reddish as Gretchen's, Richard mused, but certainly they weren't just brown.

At his side, Miss Peony Turnbull looked almost the same. Tall, thin, with light blue eyes and reddish hair, cut following the current fashion - curly around her head and not very long, ornate by a beautiful pearl-comb. She was dressed in purple, a simple yet pretty dress, wearing the half-mourning in honour of her late cousin; but her eyes, as well as her brother's, were alive and brisk, like quicksilver. She scanned the room, probably taking in all the details, in the people, in the furnitures, in the flowers. At her side, Edward was scrutinising the Granthams as he was trying to perfectly memorise all of them.

It was creepy, Richard decided, strange at least, but both of them, with Isobel of course, were the livest thing in the room.

"Lord Grantham," Edward voice was low and grave for his age, "It's a honour to finally meet you."

"Our dear cousin's father-in-law," Peony's eyes lightened up, "Matthew often wrote about you."

"I hope in a good way," Lord Grantham chuckled, nervously.

"Of course," answered Peony with a small smile.

"Shouldn't he?" asked Edward.

"Of course he should," replied Turnbull, coming to help Lord Grantham from his children's impertinent questions, "We're all glad to meet you. And to thank you, since you're taking so good care of my sister."

The other man laughed and conducted the small group in the luxurious dining room, "Cousin Isobel's part of the family. As you all, of course."

"Oh," Cora Crawley's light eyes widened in surprise, as she had finally understood something important, suddenly interrupting the conversation between the two men, "You are -"

"Twins," supplied Edward, sitting at the place Carson had showed him.

Peony inclined her head sideways, gracefully falling on the chair, "Of course we are."

"Same eyes."

"Same hair."

The Dowager Countess shrugged slightly, sitting as on a throne at her place, "Do you always complete each another's phrases?"

"Yes," answered Peony, turning her light eyes on the old Lady, at the other side of the table.

"After all we are just two different side..." went on Edward.

"... of the same coin," completed Peony, sipping slowly her wine.

"Well, that's creepy."

"Mother, please," murmured Robert with a small smile, "They're -"

"They're behaving improperly," replied quickly Turnbull, trying to suppress the small grin on his thin lips, "They always speak like that. I've never managed to make them stop, nor did their professors."

Both the twins' smiles widened, as they were satisfied by the very simple thing, "Two different side..." said Edward.

"... of the same coin," completes again Peony, throwing her twin a smile.

"And what do their mother think about it?" asked the Dowager, eyeing Turnbull, "We all expected to see her here this evening with you."

Peony's head snapped towards her father, and Eddie's grasp on his fork went stronger; Isobel too looked cautiously at her brother, but Turnbull simply gave everyone a polite smile.

"Mrs. Turnbull lives in Bath. Said she couldn't come."

"Is she ill?" Cora blinked quickly, her beautiful eyes now concerned, "We're sorry to hear that."

"She's not, my Lady," Turnbull's smile widened a little, "We're divorcing."

"What?"

After some stupefied seconds, Robert's shocked voice surprised everybody. Quickly, Richard threw a glance to Isobel, too far from him to reach her hand and squeeze it to soothe her, but it looked like she was positively beaming in satisfaction, trying to suppress a smile. Then he remembered something about Isobel not liking Mrs. Turnbull, - probably she'd waited that very announcement for years - and didn't he know well enough that Isobel always celebrate her victories?

"Since she's never seemed very interested in her life as wife and mother, I decided it's better for all of us if we divorce," Turnbull's calm voice cleft the surprised silence, "Surely, I should have took that decision before, in order to give my children someone who act as the mother they didn't have."

* * *

Hours later, a burst of hushed gossips followed two dark silhouettes as they descended from the car at the end of the alleyway. The front door of Crawley House opened softly and the two figures turned back, their young faces barely lightened by the low light coming from inside.

"Good night, doctor Clarkson," murmured Peony.

"It has been a pleasure," added Edward, then both disappeared inside in a cloud of whispers and giggles.

Richard smiled in the darkness, amused. If Isobel and her brother were like just half of the twins when they were young, they should had been quite a riddle for an alone-and-doctor father.

"Good night, Richard," Turnbull extended his long hand, interrupting his musing, "Thank you for your company this evening. I don't think I would have been able to handle the Dowager Countess all alone. And good luck," seeing his surprised glance, the older man added, "Joining that family wouldn't be something easy."

"Of course it wouldn't," replied Richard, shaking the outstretched hand, "But I know the... Risks, as to say. And the game is worth the candle," he smiled again, "Goodnight, Edward."

Turnbull nodded his appreciation, before taking Isobel's free hand and gently kissing it, "My dear sister, sleep well."

"You too, Edward," Isobel smiled, "See you in the morning."

He threw her a last glance, the shadow of a smile on his thin lips, then he touched the brim of his hat in greeting and closed the heavy door at his shoulders. A comfortable silence followed, occasionally interrupted by the first May crickets, by some owl far in the distance. It was a quite night after an all but quite evening, and Isobel was grate for it; a dinner at the Abbey was always something quite demanding, but a dinner with both her families was something out of her league, something that had tired her at her limits.

"Well, everything went better than expected."

Richard's words escaped his lips in a soft sigh, and Isobel knew immediately he was as glad as her the evening was over. She turned towards him, taking his hand and smiling faintly, "It did. We managed it."

He smiled too, then became serious once again, "Did you tell Edward about your idea for our honeymoon?"

"Of course, and he thinks it's a great idea," Isobel's smile faded too and she suddenly looked a little worried, "So great he wants to pay it for us."

"What?"

"Since we already have an house with everything, Edward wants to give us our honeymoon as his personal wedding present," she shrugged, sighing, "Eddie and Peony have their one, it seems."

"It's way too much, we surely cannot ask him something like that."

"I told him, so he replied we shouldn't worry about it. Said he'll solve things up."

"Then it seems we just have to wait."

"But do you like my idea, don't you?" Isobel asked, a little bit anxious, "I don't want you to agree on such a matter only to make me happy."

"Isobel," he took also her other hand and kissed them both in turn, "I'd the happiest man on the Earth just staying with you, just having you at my side. But no, my dear, I'm not saying 'yes' just to make you happy; but because I think it's a lovely idea."

She smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck, letting her hands drop down his back

"Do you think I can kiss you goodnight or your brother is watching us behind one of those windows, ready to kill me?" he joked, sliding his hands down her sides to her hips.

"I'm more than sure Edward's there, he's always watching after me, but right now I don't care," her smile widened manifestly, "So, 'the game is worth the candle', you say?"

"With you as my prize? Of course it is."

"_Prize_…" Isobel lifted her eyes to the sky, pretending to think, pouting a little, "I don't think I like the word, Richard."

"Well, then…" he kissed her gently on the forehead, "With you as my companion. At my side, as my beautiful wife. I think for something like that I'd bear all the Dowager Countess in the world. And all of her mothers-in-law too," he added, revelling in the sound of her soft laughter.

"Such a love declaration, I can not ask for more," she went quieter and looked at him from under her light eyelashes, serious, almost touched, "I couldn't really ask for more. No matter what, you're still here. No matter my behaviour in the last months, no matter all the difficulties, no matter the problems… you're still here."

"I wouldn't be elsewhere, Isobel," he gently took her chin in his hand, cupping softly her face, "Listen to me, just listen to me. I will always be here, my dear, of course I will. Don't you see? I'll do everything for, ask me anything and I'll get it for you."

"Just stay with me. Be at my side."

"Not to worry about that," seeing her still sad smile, Richard caressed her cheek, "Look, your birthday is in a month, what do you want to do for it?"

Isobel blinked, surprised, "You know when my birthday is? How?"

"June, the 3rd. From your personal folder at the hospital," he cleared his throat, embarrassed, "It was one of the first thing I check when I understood I loved you. But I've never found the courage to make you my best wishes, not to say buy you something. But I'll put remedy to it, I swear."

"There's no need for it, Richard, dear."

"You'll be my wife," he replied, quite seriously now, "And that will be your first birthday together. I want it to be special for you. I want -"

"You should take me out, then. To celebrate."

"Good! If you think so, I'll take you somewhere, maybe in Ripon, or in York, or -"

"A picnic would be perfect, dear. Just the two of us, and some good food. Maybe some wine. What do you think?"

"It sounds perfect. Perfect and intimate."

"Well then, it's set," she threw a quick glance towards the house, catching the small, swift movement of the curtain of the sitting-room window, "I think I should so then. Somebody is impatient for me to go back inside."

"I will not keep you over," softly, well aware of her brother's eyes on them, Richard kissed first her cheek, then her hand, "In a few days there will be nothing to keep me away from you. Not even your brother."

Laughing softly, Isobel kissed him lightly, then headed to the door, a new lightness in her steps, in the sway of her hips.

"Richard?" Isobel turned, her hand on the handle of the door, looking at him curiously, as something had struck her suddenly, "Where did you find that photo of mine that you kept on your bedside table back in Edinburgh?"

"Personal folder, my love," he answered, his frame disappearing in the darkness at the end of her front garden, "They're full of surprises and gifts for a love-struck man!

Laughing softly at his words, Isobel closed the door and put on the latch, turning the key. She sensed immediately his presence behind her and squared her shoulder a little.

"You know, Edward, I thought I was well behind the age when a girl need a chaperon."

"I was just checking you were alright."

"Watching me and my husband-to-be from the window? Hidden behind the curtains?"

Turnbull smiled, and his eyes shone in the darkness, amused, "Like a spy."

* * *

**- A/N: I promise next chapter will be about the wedding.**

**A/N #2: my idea of Isobel's brother is Timothy Dalton. You now, James Bond #6. Lord President of the Time Lord Rassilon. Just sayin' - that's why I love his last joke.**

**A/N #3: Edward Jr. and Peony as twins is a small tribute to the Lutece Twins for _BioShock Infinite_, as same of their catchphrases. D'ye ken thaim? Thair great!**

_**A/N #4: Happy B-day to Miss Wilton!**_

* * *

**_Black Widow Mistress_, I'm still in mourning for the CM Finale. God. Then, I'm really glad you like both Isobel/Violet strange relationship and Edward Turnbull. Personally, I love him. Thank you!**

**_Chelsietea_, take it easy, commenta quando, come, dove, perché vuoi ;) sono felice che tu sia felice (cit.) per gli aggiornamenti, e puoi ben capire quanto io sia rallegrata dal ricevere commenti da una fan italiana! Esistiamo, amica mia, ESISTIAMO!  
****PS: ti è arrivato il MP con il link dell'intervista? Perché fa le bizze ogni tanto!**

**_Batwings79_, I simply adore Isobel and Violet arguing/confronting/just talking/meddling each another businesses… aren't they just great?  
****Then, I'm glad you like the family interactions - It just seemed… a good idea. I'd really like if Fellowes, among other things, says something more about the characters' background… but, since he didn't, I supplied. And I'm so glad you like it! Thank you!**

**_Demilune34_, I'm so surprised Fellowed has totally forgotten Isobel's brother. I mean, he usually uses all his characters, even the plus-than-minor-ones (like Kieran Branson), but Doctor Turnbull… puff! disparu! Well, Isobel had her moment of panic when she saw his sister, he must had his own too, or not? ;)  
****Wait for the famous PM about Vicenza in you mail-box!**

**_Spirit-of-the-Time_, yes, I do not like Mary - I've never liked her, actually. But I'd really love to see an improvement of their strain relationship in the nest season (c'mon, Fellowes!), since Matthew's death affected them both. For now, I'm really happy you liked how I wrote it. Vielen Danke!**

**_Guest_, hi, there! I promise next (two) update(s) will be about the wedding, so yes, the siblings will meet each another - and the Scottish branch will meet the famous Dowager Countess! Violet is vulnerable about her husband - her reaction to Martha Levinson's words brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for your kind review!**

**See you soon (I hope!), guid cheerio th'noo! -**


	17. Chapter 17

**- I got a little carried away. So there will be two chapters about the weeding and the wedding-reception. I hope I'll be able to update also the other one soon!**

**And I'm also sorry for the late - but it has been an horrible week, I lost my mobile phone, which means I've lost all my drafts and draft e-mails, which means I've lost entire chapters of other fanfictions. Luckily, not this one. But, however, I'm mourning my loss. Goodness! -**

"Mother would be proud of you."

She smiled, turning from the long mirror in the bedroom to look at her brother, standing near the door adjusting his bow-tie, "Mother would not even recognise me now, Edward."

"But if she did, she would be proud," he crossed the room the stand at her side, "And Father, too."

She felt her eyes went moist and her smile trembled a little, "Edward..."

"But no one, Isobel," he said, gently, taking her hand, "No one would ever been prouder than me. I've never seen you this radiant and beautiful. Never. You're beaming, and no one, I repeat, no one would ever been prouder than me. Not even your husband."

Touched, standing on her tip-toes, Isobel planted a kiss on her brother's cheek, "Thank you."

"Are you sure, Papa? Her husband-to-be seemed quite proud before, when he left his cottage," Peony entered the room, wrapped in a cloud of light-purple silk, followed by her brother, "Beaming with proud, he was. Eddie, would you please..."

"... help you with your comb? Of course, Peony," the young man quickly arranged his sister hair, then turned to his aunt, "We're proud too, aunt Isobel. You're beautiful."

"Thank you, Eddie," gently, Isobel crossed the room and kissed her nephew's cheek, "You're too good."

"He's not, aunt Isobel. His more than right, you're very pretty."

Isobel smiled, embarrassed, compliments always made her feel uncomfortable, "Pretty is different from beautiful."

Peony grinned, "But a man's opinion is worthier, in this case. So he's right."

"I hate to interrupt this _lovely_ conversation, but we risk to arrive in late in Ripon if we wait a little longer," Turnbull pushed his sister towards the door, "And I hate being late. Children, take your coats."

Out of nowhere, Peony and Edward produced their dark coats, smiling broadly, "Oh, but we already are in late."

"Well more in late that what we should be, since the bride's always a little late."

Turnbull gently rolled his eyes at his son's pun, "And what do you mean by that?"

"That uncle Richard has already left for Ripon."

Isobel's hearth made a somersault of joy at Peony's words and she threw her a bright smile, immediately returned.

"In taxi," added Edward, putting on his hat and admiring himself in the mirror by the corridor.

"Quite dashing, I have to say," Peony went to stand at his side, arranging something on her black coat, "You're a lucky woman, aunt Isobel, he's very handsome today."

"Peony..."

"Yes. Thing I shouldn't say."

"Exactly. So you've seen him leaving," their father eyed them, linking his sister's arm in his, "When?"

Edward finally looked at her father, perplexed, "Almost forty minutes ago. Haven't we told you yet?"

Peony blinked, "Haven't we?"

"_When_?"

"We followed him," Peony explained, "Eddie took a bike, I sat on the bike-stake and we followed him up until the cross for Ripon and Thirsk."

"Than we came back, changed ourselves and informed aunt Isobel about her husband-to-be's handsomeness."

"He saw us, I think."

"I don't care if he saw you two or not!" exclaimed Turnbull, exasperated, "Why did it take you forty minutes or more to advise us we were in late?"

Peony and Edward lowered their eyes, "Well..."

"You know, Papa..."

"What? Out with it!"

"We got lost," blurted out Edward.

"We didn't know those streets and the village," Peony quickly came to help her brother.

"So I took the wrong turn and we almost ended up at the Abbey!"

"And then, coming back, we got lost in the wood and arrived at the lake. And ended up in the mud."

"And when we finally arrived here we were all dirt, so we had to change ourselves and then, _ta-daaah!_, we came up here to inform you."

"You're telling me," started Turnbull slowly, an edge of anger in his voice, barely kept quiet, "That we're going to be late at your aunt's most important day just because you two got lost with a bike, while you were following the groom?"

"Yes," breathed out Peony in relief, missing her father's murderous glance.

"Something like that," added Edward, relieved as well.

"Luckily, traditions are in our favour."

"Imagine if it was the groom the one in late. Deeply in late, as we are."

"What a tragedy!"

Turnbull's outburst against his children almost got lost at Isobel's ears; she was laughing softly, not sure if because she was feeling quite euphoric or because her nerves were getting better on her; she just knew nothing could spoil the day of her wedding.

* * *

"She's in late."

"Of coorse she is. She's th' bride."

"Almost a hoor-in-late bride?"

"Focus on the positife thin'," she ignored his deadly glance, "She's gettin' beautiful fo' ye."

"Whit if she haes changed her mind?"

"She haesna. She isnae a runaway bride."

A polite cough distracted the siblings from their incipient bickering.

"I've just rang at Crawley House," Lady Mary approached them with her thin smile on her equally thin lips, baby George in her arms, "Molesley said they had left half an hour ago. Should be there in minutes."

"What has happened?"

"Some problem with Turnbull's children's dresses. He's quite angry."

"Ye see, brither? Nothin' to be warry 'bout!" Gretchen gently patted her brother's shoulder, then headed to the office, "Stay thaur, I'll explain awthin' to the officer."

They both followed Gretchen with their eyes, her bright green dress warming up the otherwise cold entrance of the Registration Office. It was a new dress, Richard mused, and quite expensive too. A pang of guilt hit him right in the stomach at the thought of her buying new clothes for herself and her four grandchildren, just because he was finally getting married. He had noticed Finnean and Neil's sailor outfits, as well as Bonnie and Siobhan's delicate and pretty dresses in lace and organza, playing outside the building. He would not even think about what sacrifices she should had done in order to buy those fine clothes, or simply to make them with her hands, just to make sure she will not make a bad impression in front of the Crawleys; but instead decided he will refund her every pound she had spend in those days for him, train-tickets included.

"You seem so nervous, doctor."

"I'm sorry, Lady Mary," Richard chuckled, tense, leaving his thoughts, "I'm just overexcited, I think."

"Well, that's normal. Matthew was too, at our wedding. I was calmer, and I bet Cousin Isobel will be too," Lady Mary smiled, dilly-dallied for just a moment and then put baby George in his lap, "There. My son likes you, maybe he will help you calm down a little."

Baby George smiled his toothless smile and handed him his small plush, a small, brown dog, gurgling, trying to tell him something.

"This belonged to Mr. Crawley," smiled Richard, recognising the small plush at once, "I remember it from when he stayed at the hospital because of his injuries."

"It was mine, actually. I gave it to him during the war as a lucky-charm," she laughed, bitterly, "It didn't work very well, I fear."

"He came back alive, my Lady," he gently reminded her, playing in the meantime with the baby in his lap and his little plush, "And then started walking again. He had you at this side all the time, then married you, and had this beautiful son. What happened after, lady Mary, was a disgrace, but no one could blame himself for it," he had done the same speech to Isobel one of the night when she had been particularly sad; somehow, he felt Lady Mary was worn out by the very same sense of guilt, "Not Mr. Crawley and his joy, not the car, not the other driver, not Isobel and, surely, not you."

"You know, doctor Clarkson," she began, sharply, and he feared he had offended her with his sincerity. But then she sat down near him and took her baby's small hand in hers, "You are quite similar to my late husband."

"Am I?"

She nodded, so he just waited for her to go on, "Both very positive. Always, or almost always, smiling. Often misunderstanding or refusing the rules of the upper-classes, but never obstructing it clearly. You prefer to maintain an equilibrium between all the parts, and then do what you feel it's better to do. And I like it," she stood up again, searching for the right words, "You're not cold as us, the Granthams, but at the same time you're not as progressive as Cousin Isobel. You're in the middle. You are..." she stopped, searching again for the words, almost struggling with herself, becoming suddenly paler, "You're the link between the Family and Cousin Isobel. You're almost in Matthew's place, now. I'd... like you to participate in my son's life. Teaching him what his father would have thought him."

He widened his eyes in surprise, "My Lady, you want me -"

"I want you to be his grandfather," she blushed, strongly, and her red cheeks clashed with her pale skin, understanding her mistake, making up for it quickly, "Of course you will be by marriage, but I'd like you to be present. Play with him, teach him what my father can't. I'd like you to teach how to be like his father, since he's not here anymore. To be... normal. Happy. More relaxed than us, careful but not anxious. We'll teach him to be the nobleman he is, grandmama Isobel will teach him the rights of women and the rights of bourgeoisie. Will you teach him how to stay in the middle? How to play as an arbiter?"

"I'd be delighted, my Lady."

"I think George'd be delighted too," she smiled, her first broad, happy smiled, and pointed at her baby, his puffy hands trying to undo Richard's bow-tie.

Then sounds of the braking of a car and chatters outside caught their attention, and they both recognise Turnbull twins' voices. Richard's hearth began to race, and Lady Mary smiled at him.

"Here they are," he just nodded, his eyes fixed on the door, "I'm sure you won't tell my parents about this conversation. Or to my grandmother."

"I won't. Of course I won't."

"Not even to Cousin Isobel?"

Richard looked at Lady Mary, and her small smile told him she was just teasing him - there was a hidden part of Lady Mary, he realised, they will probably never get to know. He smiled too, "I cannot lie to my wife."

"Just what I wanted to hear," Lady Mary took back George in her arms and nodded towards the door of the Office, "I think you should wait inside for your bride."

"We're not at the church," he replied, always feeling guilty about that, "There's no need for me to wait her inside."

"You know, doctor," she murmured, moving to let pass Gretchen coming back from the Office, who quickly started fussing with her brother's suit, pulling him on his foot, "You may haven't noticed it, but the Registration Office is empty," her smile widened just a fraction, "This's my gift. No jewels, no dresses, but a proper wedding ceremony, as if it where at the church, since you can not get married there. And the reception will be up at the Abbey," she paused to kiss her son's cheek, "I've already arranged everything with the officer. So I'll suggest you to leave this room and wait for her in the office."

* * *

At the end, Lady Mary was true to her word. The Office was empty and he waited, nervous and still incredulous, with Gretchen beaming at his side, for Turnbull to accompany Isobel down the small room.

He didn't remember clearly about their surroundings, he had to admit it, now, in the back seat of the car with his wife. He remembered vaguely Lady Mary sat in the front row, holding her son, her black dress remembering everybody Mr. Crawley's painful absence, and George gurgling happily, biting so softly his plush.

At the same side of the room, standing in front of the first row, beaming as much as Gretchen and grinning widely, Edward and Peony waited, he in a black suit with a blue orchid in the hole of his jacket, she dressed in light purple, a small straw-hat covering her brown-reddish hair, a bouquet of orchids in her hands, their colour matching almost perfectly their eyes.

But they were all blurred images in his mind, vague memories.

What he remembered perfectly, something that he will always cherished as his most precious memory, was Isobel at his side, dressed, as he asked and she promised, in her light blue dress from her sons's wedding, her hat and coat from Thirsk on the bench behind her nephews, a new straw-hat covering her honey hair. The memory of her refusal, its pain, were still a fresh wound, as well ad the months after and their week in Scotland, but something in her glowing appearance, in the strong grip of her hand on his, told him that very same dress was about to become his favourite.

* * *

_"You changed your hat," he whispered to her as the officer dispatched all the formalities._

_"I prefer this one with this dress," she murmured back, her eyes still focused on the officer, "But I'll put the other one with the coat, if you prefer so."_

_"You're beautiful however."_

_She smiled up at him, broadly, her eyes glimmering with happiness under the straw-trim of her hat. He recognised it then, it was the one from Matthew Crawley's wedding, as her dress. He should had imagined it, truly._

_"Please, repeat after me," the officer's voice caught him almost out of guard, and Richard difficulty diverted his eyes for her face, focusing his attention on the man in front of them, "I, Richard Clarkson."_

_"I, Richard Clarkson…"_

_"Take thee, Isobel Crawley,"_

_"Take thee, Isobel Crawley…"_

_"To be my wedded wife."_

_"To be my wedded wife."_

_He had the clear impression of seeing his sister smiling somewhere at his right, behind them, surrounded by her four grandchildren. He was so sure she was enjoying that very moment as much as them, as she was just bursting with joy for him; truly, he cannot ask for a better sister._

_"I, Isobel Crawley."_

_"I, Isobel Crawley…" her voice, her soft and gentle voice, so near at his side, surprised him once again. How on Earth was possible, for him, to get married to someone like her?_

_"Take thee, Richard Clarkson..."_

_"Take thee, Richard Clarkson…"_

_"To be my wedded husband."_

_"To be my wedded husband," her voice trembled on the last word, but when she smiled at him, he couldn't seen anything but joy, and some unshed tears of happiness. Her grip on his hand was strong, so very strong, as she was unwilling to leave him, but Richard has never been that happy to have her with him._

_"And now the ring."_

_Turnbull appeared at Isobel's side, his thin smile always on his lips, but to Richard it seemed it was a little bit broader, a little bit bigger, and more satisfied. He handed them a small white cushion, with a blue orchid and two rings laid upon it. Unknowingly, Richard threw a glance to the twins: Edward just smiled, but Peony waved lightly her bouquet of orchids, as to make sure he knew they were behind that small flower on the cushion._

_"With this ring, I plight thee my troth."_

_"With this ring, I plight thee my troth…"_

_"As a symbol of all we have promised."_

_"As a symbol of all we have promised…"_

_"And all that we share."_

_"And all that we share."_

_Richard took the wedding ring, looking at it for some second in silence. They were a gift from the Crawleys, surely he wouldn't had been able to afford some wedding rings so beautiful and precious. Collecting his thoughts once again, he took the ring and gently slid it on her ring finger, trying, and failing miserably, not to feel too proud about having her as his wife._

_"It, therefore, gives me great pleasure to say you are now husband and wife together."_

_He turned to look at her, to properly look at his wife for the first time. He was almost surprised she hadn't changed at all - of course she was Isobel, yet she wasn't the very same Isobel. She wasn't the woman he loved anymore, she was something more._

_Seriously, still incredulous, Richard cupped her face with his free hand, the other clenched between her smaller ones, and, without caring about what her brother, their families, or the officer would say, kissed her squarely on the lips._

* * *

He'll always particularly well their first kiss as husband and wife, he decided - he was quite sure he was grinning madly right now, and will always grin madly at the thought of it. He remembered well her small hands squeezing his bigger one, he remembered her soft lips under his, her soft smile, her bright eyes.

"It has been very kind of you, Tom, to come here with the car to take us back to the Abbey," her voice reached him and took him back to reality, "Thank you, my dear boy."

"I wanted to, Mrs. Clarkson. You helped me after Sybil's death, and your husband tried to save her. She surely would have been there with us, you know. This is just a small favour to thank you both," Branson smiled at them from the rearview mirror, "You know, it'll be very strange to call you 'Mrs. Clarkson'."

"Will it?" Isobel smiled back at the former chauffeur, than turned to Richard, "Will it be strange for you to call me like that?"

"Well," he pretended to think about it, then looked up at her as if his answer was something obvious, "Since I've imagined and dreamed to call you in this way for years, I do not see where is the difficulty. But I think I'd rather prefer to call you by your Christian name only."

She sunk back on the soft seat of the Crawleys' car, putting his arm around her shoulders, looking in mock seriousness to him, "I'd rather prefer it too."

"Very well, then," Richard took her hand and gently kissed both her rings, her Scottish one and her brand new one, "Hello, Isobel."

She smile, broadly, the broadest smile she had ever given him, "Hello, Richard, dear."

* * *

**- I will never thank you all enough for your follows, your favourites and your reviews. Thank you.**

**_Black Widow Mistress_, I'm so happy I never disappoint you, yay! It's such a big pleasure _being_ able to satisfy the readers. Thank you, I hope I've contented you with this chapter, too!**

**_Emiliaccia_, I have a lot of expectations too, I fear, about the 4th season. I keep hoping, I keep desperately hoping, even knowing that Fellowes will sink this ship again. I remember perfectly all my hopes from the Christmas Special trailer, and we ALL know how it ended. Great God, Fellowes, you have one job - two jobs, with the Chelsie!  
****I'm really glad you like so much my story :D I promise I'll keep alive this story for some other chapters and then I promise I'll write about them again. Is that alright? Thank you again!**

**_Chelsietea_, lasciamo stare il capitolo Chelsie, che dopo aver visto quell'Uomo Che Somiglia A Grigg E Forse É Proprio Lui sto in panico. Ma dai. Persino Jim Carter shippa Chelsie come un dannato, e Fellowes comunque non fa una benemerita mazza! Soffro. Sull'altro fronte… no, gente, no. Io ho shippato Richard e Isobel dalla loro prima scena assieme, ho retto tre stagioni, tre, con due battute, il "Swim or sink together" e il "You will be missed", con fede, poi arriviamo allo Speciale di Natale e in un'ora affonda tutto, dopo avermi dato RICCHE speranze. Odio Fellowes!  
****Btw, siamo arrivati al matrimonio :D d'ye like it? E poi ci sarà il party!  
****Abbracci!**

**_Corriente_, thank you sooooooo much *send back hugs* I agree with you, totally - when there is too much sweetness it's almost pesky. I'm glad I've been able to wrote about them without rotting teeth, and I hope I'll be able to do so in future too! Then, about the Turnbulls we'll learn something more in the next chapter, as well as we'll see Violet meet the Scottish guests. Oh, my! **

**R/R, please -**


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